#but it's nice to be obsessed about something again

[p1girlfriend]

the grid crushing on reader who is the little sister of another driver

Lando Norris — if you were Max’s sister Lando tells himself every day: this is a bad idea. A very bad idea. But then you smile at him like the sun lives in your cheeks and suddenly he forgets how to walk. He offers to drive you places he’s not even going, laughs too hard at your jokes, and one day says to Max — while trying way too hard to be casual — that the weather’s really nice and he definitely wasn’t just watching you walk by in that dress. He’s doomed and he knows it.

Oscar Piastri — if you were Charles’ sister Oscar is respectful. Calm. Polite. Except when you sit next to him and your knees touch. Then it’s like his brain blue-screens. He sends you music recommendations, carries your bag without you asking, and zones out completely when you talk because he’s too busy trying not to stare at your mouth. Charles once asked why Oscar always clams up around you, and Oscar, sweating bullets, said he didn’t even realize he was quiet. He absolutely did.

Charles Leclerc — if you were Carlos’ sister He thought he had control. But every time you walk into the paddock, his eyes are already on you before you even say hi. He stands too close, his voice goes softer when he talks to you, and he always finds a reason to compliment you in that effortless Monegasque charm kind of way. When Carlos warned him, saying he better not be flirting with you, Charles promised he wasn’t — while biting back a smile that definitely gave him away.

Carlos Sainz — if you were Lando’s sister At first he tells himself it’s just admiration. A little respect. But then he starts showing up wherever you are. Offers you his jacket when you’re not even cold. You laugh and it goes straight to his chest. And when you wink at him one day during media duty, he almost trips over his own feet. He swears he’s subtle about it, but Lando’s starting to notice… and Carlos is running out of excuses.

Lewis Hamilton — if you were Daniel’s sister Lewis hates how much he thinks about you. You’re sweet, kind, and drop-dead gorgeous — which is exactly why he’s trying to keep his distance. But then you laugh at something he says, and his brain short-circuits. He texts you “hope you got home safe” and deletes it. Then types it again. Sends it. Panics. Tells himself he’s just being nice. That Danny would kill him. That this is nothing. It’s not nothing. It’s very much something.

Max Verstappen — if you were Charles’ sister Max is not a “crush” guy. He doesn’t do butterflies or staring at lips. Which is why he’s losing his mind. He’s weirdly protective over you, gets way too grumpy when anyone else flirts with you, and starts offering to walk you to the garage even when yours is across from his. He keeps his distance, but you catch him staring. Always. If anyone asked, he’d deny it completely — but his jaw clenches every time you smile at someone else.

Daniel Ricciardo — if you were Lance’s sister He’s screwed. You smiled at him once, and now he’s writing fake scenarios in his Notes app like a teenage girl. He tries to play it cool with memes and flirty jokes, but he’s spiraling. He considers asking Lance for permission — like full-on respectfully may I take your sister to dinner energy — but chickens out every time. You call him “Dan” once and he has to sit down.

Lance Stroll — if you were Oscar’s sister Golden retriever energy. Fully smitten. Will carry your bag, open every door, pull out your chair — and then turn bright red when you say thank you. Oscar catches on immediately and is not amused. He corners Lance with a deadpan look and says, don’t even think about it. Lance responds with a too-fast, too-suspicious what?? think about what?? while holding a cup of coffee he got just for you.

Gabriel Bortoleto — if you were Franco’s sister This boy is obsessed. Quietly. Hopelessly. He watches you laugh like he’s witnessing a sunrise. Sits near you, remembers the things you like, and gets lowkey flustered when you touch his arm. He’s not acting on it. Not unless you make the first move. But everyone can see it on his face — even Franco, who’s starting to wonder.

Franco Colapinto — if you were Lando’s sister He’s toast. Fully, completely toast. He forgets how to talk every time you’re around. Says “hi” and then follows it with four different versions of “cool” in one sentence. You think it’s cute. He thinks he’s dying. He plays it off like he’s not crushing, but then he goes quiet the whole day after you hug him goodbye.

©p1girlfriend | requested

[formulafanfics13]

reader is half italian but her bf charles has no idea. she makes her appearance in the paddock for the first time and when introduced to the mechanics she talks to them in italian. when they’re alone charles asks her about it. he asks why they never talked in italian and reader gets playfully defensive, «that’s not your first language!», he mentions that english isn’t either, and that he’s basically an honorary italian citizen. it’s clear that charles is turned on by it, he jokes about hearing more of it in bed. reader goes «ew, charles. does hearing italian turn you on? should i worry about the fact that half of italy wants you?» and he says it’s more about her speaking italian that sounds so sexy

la tua lingua - CL16🔥

Masterlist

summary: Charles Leclerc has been dating you for a while, but your first paddock appearance comes with a surprise — you speak fluent Italian. He’s stunned, turned on, and completely obsessed. You? Just a little smug.

warnings: mild language kink, soft dom!Charles, implied smut, public tension, teasing, banter, playful possessiveness, Charles is a flirty menace in love, language switch during intimate moments

He’s stunned the second you open your mouth.

You’re being introduced to a few of the Ferrari mechanics, Matteo, Luca, a few of the older engineers, and they greet you with easy smiles, expecting the usual hello-nice-to-meet-you paddock girlfriend nod.

Instead, you reply in perfect, melodic Italian. Not hesitant. Not textbook. Fluent. Confident. Native.

And every head turns.Charles included.

You carry on with them for a few minutes, gesturing casually, laughing with them like you’ve known them for years. Meanwhile, Charles stands beside you, stunned into silence.

When the greetings end and the group walks off to prep for FP1, he leans in close. “What the fuck was that?���

You blink up at him. “What?”

“You speak Italian?”

You blink again, like it’s obvious. “I’m half Italian, Charles.”

He stares. You grin. “You never told me,” he says, half accusing, half in awe.

“You never asked.”

“We’ve been dating for ten months.”

“You speak French, I speak English. It’s worked fine.”

“But you’re Italian.”

“Half. On my mum’s side.”

Charles shakes his head, still dazed. “Why have we never spoken Italian to each other?”

You give him a look. “That’s not your first language!”

“Neither is English!”

You squint. “You want to switch to Italian now? Like suddenly?”

Charles grins, eyes darkening in that way that makes your stomach flip. "I’m basically an honorary citizen. Ferrari made sure of that.”

You roll your eyes. And then he steps a little closer, voice dropping just for you. “Say something again.”

You raise a brow. “Why?”

“Because hearing you speak Italian just did something to me.”

You gasp. “Ew, Charles.”

He laughs. “Don’t ‘ew’ me. You have no idea how hot you sounded. I think I blacked out.”

“You’re disgusting.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Say something else,” he whispers. “Anything. Later. In bed.”

Your cheeks flush. “Jesus, Charles. Should I worry? Half of Italy already wants you.”

He hums. “Yeah, but none of them sound like you when they speak.”

You shove him playfully. He catches your hand. Kisses your knuckles. “Sono così fottutamente innamorato di te.”

You sigh. And melt. And maybe, just maybe, that night, you moan in Italian too.

[luveline]

hey do you still take requests for kbd Steve?? If so, could you please do reader feeling a bit insecure because obviously after so many kids her body won’t be the same as it was and Steve comforting her? Im obsessed with this whole au it’s so freaking cute 😭

You wouldn’t have your family without some changes, but you still wish that things could be different. 

“You’re sighing.”

“Nah.” 

“You are.” Steve tucks his fingers into the elastic on a crew sock and pulls it back. When he lets go, it flies taut across the bedroom and lands on your naked feet. “Don’t sigh, baby.” 

“I’m tired.” 

“Come’n lay down with me, then. Let Steve take care of you.” 

You wrinkle your nose as he laughs. “Gross, dude.” 

“Uber gross. Come on, come sit in my lap. Please? Please, please, please–”

You travel the room if only to quiet his surprisingly irritating soprano. “How’d you get your voice to do that?” you ask, knocking at his thighs in an attempt to shift them over. 

Steve’s having none of it, pulling you by the waist fully into his lap, his thighs spreading underneath you. You go down sideways, legs over one tan thigh. His leg hair tickles the backs of your knees. He sweeps a big hand down the flank of your calf and clamps on your ankle to stop you from fleeing. “Practice. So, what’s up with you?” 

You pretend to pick at your nails. “Nothing.”

“Yeah, try again.”

“Nothing, you jerk!” You elbow him in his chest. He looks at you with those deplorable brown eyes, too used to getting his way, and there’s a half shade of worship stuck in the flecks of his irises. You could shake him. “It’s stupid, and I already know what you’re gonna say.” 

“So spell it out for me and I’ll try to subvert your expectations.” 

“Will you?” You sag a little in his lap. “I don’t know, Steve, I guess I miss my body. You know, before I had the girls. I miss feeling…” Not perfect, did you ever feel perfect? “I don’t like having something to compare it too, I guess. And– and, you know, too, I used to be less…” 

“What, honey?” he asks nicely. 

“Soft, I guess.”

“Baby, you’ve always been soft.” He rubs his hand up your leg again. It encroaches the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His thumb plays a risky game but ultimately stays at the edge of your underwear. If your being half nude has bothered him yet, he hasn’t said. A shudder runs through you as his thumb strokes the roll of your stomach, the unavoidable skin there. “You’re exactly the same as you were before the girls.” 

“Well, I’m not.”

“Well, you’re not.” Steve holds your eyes. “It doesn’t matter, though. We’re both changing. I don’t look like–”

“Yeah, you do!” That’s what makes it so hard. He looks the same now as he did when you met. The only difference in him now is the chest hair he keeps and the wrinkles by his eyes. 

“I love that you’ve changed. I couldn’t be happier.” He covets the side of your face with his palm. It makes your cheek feel small and delicate as he strokes it carefully, warming it, letting your face dip down into his hold. “Baby,” he says, practically molten now, and melting you, his tone like honey browning over a steady flame, “you don’t need to worry about that shit, ever. Are you serious? You’re crazy if you think there’s anything about you now that doesn’t measure up to before you had Ave. Fuck, I couldn’t want you more. It’s– it’s a problem, you know it is.” 

“Is it?” 

“No. I wouldn’t change a thing about you,” he says, touching the thin material of your bralette almost curiously, though there’s nothing about you Steve doesn’t already know. 

“Okay,” you say, recognising the adoring in his eyes for what it is. He’s flushed beneath you, promise of some physical reassurance clear in his eyes, his pupils like dark dimes. “Can you take it off for me?” you ask casually, quietly, practiced innocence that has him biting the inside of his cheek. “I can’t do the clasp.” 

“Of course I can, honey. Turn around for me. Thank you, honey, that’s good. That’s perfect. Is that better?”

His fingertips are like heat where they skirt along your skin. “Thank you.” 

[plutoasteroids]

What would your fs like to do to you if they were with you right now 18+ (MDNI)

This is a general reading, take what resonates and leave the rest. For more specific readings catered to you and your energy I offer paid readings. My readings aren't a substitute for seeking professional help and guidance.

PILE 1

Your future spouse is very big on giving and receiving kisses, their love language at least the main one is very much physical touch with words of affirmation thrown in there. They have this desire or fantasy of you sitting back in a chair, your neck exposed to them and they would be trailing down soft kisses down your throat, the more they kiss the more they become more desperate. They would grab and grope for anything you will let them grab. Pile 1 your pile isnt very sexual but its more so this deep. passionate and burning desire to want to be close to each other, as close as possible, within this connection being touchy with each other is very important. It maybe you or them but one of you do feel most loved through physical contact like hugs and kissing.

PILE 2

Pile 2, unlike the tamer pile 1 you guys have clothes flying off almost immediately, your future spouse has this desperation and impatience that it's like 'okay I waited and held back long enough now that you are letting me do this, I am not wasting time'. it's a very 'let me devour you' energy from your future spouse, they don't only love you deeply, they very much desire you in the most passionate and feral way. Sitting on their lap, them kissing and sucking your neck and chest whewwww. They are quite dominant and a tad bit rough but to an extent, they know and understand that there is a limit, and they never try to cross that limit. As much as I say they are feral for you which they are there is also this energy of communication, which is quite a big thing in your relationship, you talk about what you like and don't like before getting to anything. Not going to lie some of you may even have safe words but it's all fun and at the end of the day you both enjoy it which is all that matters.

PILE 3

You guys are the softer pile, the let me take my time exploring your body getting to know your like, dislikes, what turns you on what makes you tick type of coupleeeee. You guys but more so your future spouse in this case like it nice and slow, they love to just pause from what they are doing and look at you with so much love and adoration again there is still this ''all mine'' kind of energy from them but not in like the crazy obsessed way in a more declaration of love kind of way. To them you are a delicate rose (this may be corny) but as much as a rose loses its petals if handled roughly, they view you as if they are too rough, they will hurt you and that's something they don't ever want to do. They will be rough if you ask and desire it but the default setting is always gentle, loving, emotional and deep (wink wink).

[mingispelvis]

Focus On Me

Genre: SMUT, Mingi x reader, afab reader, One Shot

Length: 2k Rating: Mature/R

Summary: You’re obsessed with Mingi’s body. 

Warnings and fic under the cut :)

not proof read

Warnings: use of nicknames (pretty lady), thigh riding, fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex (don’t u dare!), finishing inside (YOU BETTER NOT!!!!).

It was about that time: ovulation. Your body had been preparing for the primal ritual of mating in order to reproduce. Little did she know, no reproduction would be occurring this month, or any month for a very long time. You were in the prime of your life- stable job, good group of friends, and you had a super hot fuck buddy at your beck and call. That fuck buddy was named Song Mingi, and you’d met him at a random salsa dancing class your friend and her boyfriend invited you to. You’d agreed only if her boyfriend invited someone hot that he knew. Thus, you and Mingi learned salsa that evening, and were doing the tango in the sheets that night. Mingi was definitely your type of guy: tall, slightly tanned, dark hair, and toned. You purposely kept your distance emotionally due to the speed at which your life was going- you didn’t want to fall for your fuck buddy.

Mother nature was making it very clear that no matter how many different ways you placed your vibrator on your lower body, you would not be pleased. Ovulating meant you were at your horniest, and you needed to let your freak flag fly. It was time to text Mingi.

Me: Busy tonight? (1:45pm)

SMG: Nope. What were you thinking? ;) (1:47pm)

Me: You fuck me until I beg you to stop? (1:47pm)

SMG: See you at 10 ;) (1:48pm)

You and Mingi were incredibly sexually compatible. He let you take control when you wanted, or he’d take control if you were in the mood to be dominated. He didn’t mind having passionate, meaningless sex, and not talking for weeks between. Besides being hot and a great fuck, he was also smart. The post-coital pillow talk was never devoid of laughs, and you could speak to each other about your work without the other getting confused. You always get a little tickle in the pit of your stomach when you know you are about to see Mingi. You took extra care to shave every hair off your body, wash the grime out of your hair, paint your toes and nails, and wear matching underwear. You even set out some nice candles for scent and mood lighting and turned on a nice sexy playlist. You weren’t sure why you wanted things to be so nice for someone who was just a fuck buddy, but you didn’t have time to linger on that thought. It was 10pm and Mingi was always punctual.

You opened the door to see Mingi in a white button up and jeans- he must have come straight from work. He smirked slightly and in the dim light you could see the sparkle in his eyes.

“Hey pretty lady,” he gave you a once over as he stepped into your home and removed his shoes.

Before you could speak, Mingi ran his arms over your see-through, red robe that you’d quickly draped over your body before answering the door. 

“Mmmm. You wearing this sexy little number for me?” Mingi asked, rubbing the sheer material between his fingers. When his eyes met yours, you felt that butterfly in your stomach again. 

“No talking, only fucking.” You deflected, grabbing his wrist and leading him to the couch. You pushed him down and straddled him. Mingi placed his hands gingerly on your hips. You’d meant to immediately lean down and kiss him, but something stopped you. You bit your lip as your hands landed softly on Mingi’s broad shoulders. You rubbed your hands across them, letting the cool, rough material of his shirt outline his muscles. Mingi watched your pupils dilate as you moved your fingers to trace the veins in his arms, traveling down his thick bicep.

You couldn’t help but moan. You weren’t sure why his body was doing this to you, especially since you’d seen it multiple times before. 

“You like what you see, pretty lady?” Mingi was grinning as you interlaced your hands with his larger ones. 

“Your body…it’s…” you let go of his hands as you tried to get your brain to focus on words. Unfortunately, your eyes had roamed to Mingi’s waist. You placed your hands on his waist, thin, yet firm, and traced upwards, following the “v” shape that the muscles in his back allowed him to have. 

“It’s…? What is it, pretty lady? What do you think about my body?” Mingi was teasing you now, but it affected him. He loved the compliments and you could feel him hardening underneath you. When he shifted beneath you, you were drawn to his thighs. Thick and hard, you began to grind on them. Mingi gripped your waist again, flexing his thigh, to aid you in your movements. 

“It’s crazy. Your body is crazy.” you responded, almost breathless with desire. You steadied yourself against his stomach, feeling obscured ab muscles there as well. You threw your head back as you moved faster on Mingi’s thigh. He took this opportunity to nip at your neck, jaw, and then your lips. He tasted sweet and savory, and you inhaled his scent deeply- a deep spice with an underlying musk. You sucked on his lips, moaning again as you appreciated their plumpness, their softness. 

“Mingi, your body is driving me crazy.” you breathed your admission into your kiss. 

“I can tell. You’re about to grind a hole into my jeans!” Mingi whispered back. You didn’t stop kissing Mingi, even when he lifted you up to carry you to your bedroom. You just wrapped your legs around his slim waist, never letting your lips leave his smooth skin. 

Mingi attempted to lay you lightly on your back, but the moment your feet hit your carpet, you yanked Mingi down. You were intoxicated by him. Kissing him passionately and running your fingers through his hands as if you couldn’t grasp onto enough of him, you moaned his name in his mouth. Mingi escaped from your grasp long enough to pepper kisses down your body, his left hand tugging at your bra, his right hand tugging at your panties. You got the hint and lifted your hips to allow him to pull off your panties, while you finagled your hands behind your back to unclasp your bra. Mingi’s lips never left your body as he began to roll your nipple in his fingers and swipe up and down your leaking folds. As deft as he was with his mouth, Mingi decided he wanted your upper lips rather than your lower, so he slipped two fingers into you.

“You're already taking my fingers so well baby.” Mingi cooed as he curled his fingers up to reach your sweet spot. He worked you slowly but firmly, a brutally calm pace that had you quickly seeing stars. You gripped his broad shoulders again, biting your lip as you glanced at the way his shoulder muscles moved as he pumped in and out of you. That was enough to push you over the edge, and you released all over Mingi’s fingers. He’d waited long enough- you could feel his cock straining against his jeans- and Mingi pulled down his jeans and briefs in one swift motion. You used this time to scoot to the head of the bed and pull up your thighs, spreading your legs in anticipation.

“Fuck,” Mingi pumped his leaking cock once, pupils blown at the sight of you presenting himself  before him. He took little time to line up and press slowly into you. You always fit like a glove. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. Moaning in unison, the two of you locked eyes. Mingi began to move, relishing in each inch he got to feel of you. You didn’t have time for that, though. You wanted more. You pushed him off of you and pulled him down onto his back. Eyes wide, Mingi let you manhandle him, and smiled as you squatted over him and slowly lowered yourself onto his erection. The electricity between the two of you gave you energy you’d never experienced as you began to bounce up and down. You steadied yourself on his chest, but angrily grabbed at his shirt as you realized it stymied you from feeling his warm skin. Mingi began to quickly unbutton his shirt as you continued to ride him mercilessly. Free from the confines of cloth, Mingi’s abs beckoned you. You slid your hands slowly up and down his chest- obsessing over every valley and hill of his abdomen. It was too much.

“Fuck!” You exclaimed, throwing your head back. You placed one hand behind you, and used the other to rub frantically around your clit. Mingi could see and feel your desperation as you clenched around him, and did the gentlemanly thing of helping you. He gripped your hips, planted his feet, and fucked into you at the same pace you’d been riding him. 

“Yes Mingi, just like that,” you commanded, chasing the high that you’d been waiting for for days. Surprisingly, it burst out of you faster than you’d anticipated, and you yelped as Mingi continued to pound into you- the squelch of your juices motivating him to keep making you feel amazing. You went limp in his grasp, gasping for air as your second orgasm lingered, a tingling feeling throughout your body. Mingi stopped, pulled out of you, and rolled you to your side. Your chest was still heaving, your body still reeling, and Mingi was ready for cuddles. He curled up next to you, but you stopped him.

“What are you doing?” you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Aren’t you done? You’re not tired?” He raised an eyebrow back.

“Never. Get back in here!” You pointed to your pussy as you lifted your thighs.

Mingi laughed loud, heartily, and positioned himself on top of you again. The thing about Mingi was that he looked like a fuckboy. He looked like someone that would pound into you for 30 seconds, pull out, bust on your stomach, and then ask if you could call him an uber. Mingi wasn’t a fuckboy, though. He was a man that was passionate and empathetic. He was emotional. So when he got the opportunity to be with a beautiful woman with an sex drive to rival his own, he cherished the time. He slid into you slowly, pulled out slowly, and breathed deeply. He knew you were sensitive, so he was careful. Soft. 

You didn’t want soft.

“Please, Mingi. Fuck me hard.” you begged. 

“Whatever you want, pretty lady.” 

He whispered as he placed his head in the crook of your neck. He interlaced your fingers with his, and lifted your arms to lay on either side of your head, squeezing your hands tight as he began a pace that had you rambling. Skin on skin, it felt like you and Mingi were one. Your head was swirling and all you could think about was him. Mingi leaned up to see your eyelids heavy, but your eyes staring directly into his with a fiery want.

“That’s right baby, focus on me.” Mingi’s eyelids were low, his voice a rumble, as he coaxed you into your final orgasm of the night. Your obsession with Mingi’s body had you shaking as you gushed onto his cock. You pulsed and clenched in a way that caused Mingi to groan loudly, falter in his pace, and start breathing faster. He fell back on top of you- chest to chest- lips at the shell of your ear.

“Oh pretty lady you’re gonna make me- ugh- fuck!” Mingi couldn’t finish his sentence as you wrapped your legs around his waist and had him hit a spot deep inside you. Fucking you faster and faster, Mingi chased his orgasm. One final thrust, one long groan, Mingi stilled as he spilled inside you. He throbbed and groaned your name, never letting go of your hands, breathing heavily until he could finally come down. 

“Fuck am I glad you’re on the pill,” Mingi laughed lightly, “because I think I just put a month’s worth of cum in you.”

“Yeah I think you like when I talk about how hot you are.” You teased.

“I think so too.” Mingi scratched at the back of his head, cheeks turning redder than they already were from exertion.

Mingi cleaned you up, grabbed you some water from the kitchen, and proceeded to do his duty as big spoon. As the two of you talked,  tangled in each other’s limbs, Mingi lightly rubbed up and down your curves. He looked you deep in your eyes. Every word you spoke, he heard. Maybe one day you’d realize he was focused on you, too. 

~~~

Tag list: @mingisprincxss I hope this fits your request!

[choerykiss]

Journal Entries When They Like You

𝜗ৎ comedy/fluff/romance/gn!reader ─ #word count: around 320 each

✦ warnings : light embarassment/overthinking, mild swearing (like "loser," "dumb"), internal panic (tone: Silly, flustered, humorous, very relatable crush anxiety.)

─ twst [first years] ace . deuce . jack . epel . sebek

﹒𝓝𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: My first twisted wonderland post! I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I did writing it~ I've paid close attention to capturing each of their personalities perfectly!

Ace Trappola

Okay, okay, okay. I’m not freaking out. I’m just… casually writing in a book that’s definitely not for pouring out my feelings or whatever. Just, y’know, observations. Normal stuff. So… yeah. They smiled at me today. I KNOW it’s not a big deal—they smile at everyone—but it was different this time, okay?? I swear it lasted like… 0.7 seconds longer than usual. That means something, right? Right???

And when they laughed at my dumb joke during alchemy class?? I wasn’t even trying that hard to be funny! It just came out! But they laughed!! I saw it! AND they even nudged me with their elbow. Touched me. That’s physical contact. That’s basically a proposal in some cultures, probably. Also—I may or may not have stared at them a little too long at lunch. Deuce elbowed me and was like “Dude, you’re drooling.” WHICH I WASN’T. I was just… admiring. Appreciating. Being… observant! Like a good student of love—NO. NOT LOVE. It’s a crush. A tiny crush. A lil’ baby one. Like, “oh hey, they’re cute, whatever” kinda crush. Harmless. Innocent. …Okay maybe I imagined us holding hands. Once. Or twice. But still! I’m not like, obsessed or anything. … I wonder if they like red roses or white ones. Not that I’d buy them any or something, that’d be weird… Unless?? Ugh. Why is liking someone so dumb? I feel like a loser. But also… a little happy. Like, when I think about them, my stomach does this weird flip thing. Kinda annoying, but also kinda nice. Anyway. If Deuce ever finds this journal, I’m deleting myself from existence. This never happened. – Ace Trappola

Deuce Spade

Time: 9:43 PM Location: Dorm room, bed, hiding under the blanket so Ace doesn’t see me writing this. I think I like them. No—I know I like them. I’ve been trying to ignore it but… it’s getting kinda impossible. They smiled at me in flight class today and asked if I wanted to partner up and my heart??? Literally tried to escape my chest. I thought I was gonna pass out right there on the broom. And when they cheered me on after I nailed that loop?? I nearly crashed straight into the Spelldrive tower because my brain short-circuited. They’re just… so nice?? And funny. And when they talk, I actually want to listen. Like, really listen. Not just nod and pretend like with the teachers. They could talk about mushroom biology and I’d be like “yes, tell me more.” I tried to compliment them earlier. Said their outfit looked cool. They smiled and said “thanks” in that soft voice of theirs and I—GHHH. My ears turned red. I KNOW THEY DID. I felt them burning. I probably looked like a tomato. Or worse… a beet. I dunno how to deal with this. I want to tell them how I feel but also… what if they laugh? Or what if it ruins everything? Or what if Ace finds out and tells everyone and then they find out before I even get to say anything and think I’m a coward???? Ugh. Being a guy is hard. Feelings are hard. They make everything hard. …But maybe someday, if I get stronger… cooler… better… maybe I’ll be brave enough to tell them. For now, I’ll just protect them from afar. And maybe sneak them their favorite snack between classes again tomorrow. Not because I like them or anything. Okay maybe a little. Okay maybe a lot. (Okay, I’d fight an overblot just to hold their hand. There, I said it.) - Deuce Spade

Jack Howl

Note to self: They waved at me today. I panicked and waved back too late. Looked dumb. Need to practice reacting faster. Also: They complimented my running form. Didn’t know what to say. I said “thanks” but it came out kind of gruff. They smiled anyway. …They have a really nice smile. I saw them stretching after PE. They’re really flexible. Noticed their hair had a braid in it. Looked cool. Kind of cute. Not that it matters. I mean, it does. Not in a weird way. Just. Cool. Okay. Moving on. They said I’m “reliable.” …I don’t know why, but hearing that made my chest feel tight. Not in a bad way. Just… kind of warm. Proud. But nervous. I want to stay reliable. For them. All the time. Ugh. What’s wrong with me lately?? I keep thinking about them when I’m supposed to be focused on training. I messed up my form on reps because I was thinking about the way their voice sounds when they laugh. Not acceptable. I’m better than this. I need to stay focused. …But they’re just so— They said they might come to the Spelldrive game this weekend. I said “do whatever you want,” but I meant “I hope you do.” …I want them to see me win. If they’re watching, I’ll play even harder. I don’t really get these feelings. I’ve never had a crush before. It’s kinda embarrassing. But I think I’d like to walk with them sometime. Maybe… after the next full moon run. I could show them my favorite trail. Quiet. Peaceful. Just us. That sounds… nice. – Jack Howl

Epel Felmier

Alright. I ain't no sappy poet or nothin', but I gotta get this off my chest before I go crazy. I think I’m in love. Or… somethin' close to it. They walked past me today wearin’ that cute lil outfit and smiled like it was nothin’. Like it ain’t the most powerful weapon in all of Twisted Wonderland. Like my brain didn’t just implode. I was literally holdin’ a potion vial and almost DROPPED it. Rookie move. Real smooth, Epel. Real tough. Then they sat next to me in class and leaned in real close to ask a question?? I swear on Granny’s apple pie, I forgot how to breathe. My face was probably redder than a Cortland apple. Had to pretend to cough so no one’d see me blushin’ like some weak lil farm boy. And they laughed at my joke?? A real laugh too! Not a polite one. I don’t even remember what I said. Probably somethin’ dumb. But they looked so happy I wanted to say it again a hundred more times. Ughhhhhh. What’s wrong with me?! I keep tryin’ to act all cool and manly and then they show up and I start stammerin’ like a kid seein snow for the first time. I bet Vil’d say it’s “uncouth” or “unsightly” or whatever. But he doesn’t get it! They make me wanna be real—like the me from home. The one that ain’t pretendin’ to be perfect all the time. I wanna take ‘em to my village someday. Show ‘em the orchard, the wildflowers, the quiet spots down by the creek where I used to fish. I wanna pick apples with ‘em, hand ‘em one, and kiss ‘em under the trees. ...OH GREAT NOW I’M WRITIN’ POETRY. I’m doomed. They probably don’t even like me back. I’m just the weird country kid who talks with an accent and gets too fired up over gym class. But… maybe someday… if I can work up the courage… I’ll tell ‘em. And if not, well—I’ll still protect ‘em. I’ll be strong enough to do that, at least. …Dang it, I think I am in love. – Epel Felmier

Sebek Zigvolt

FOR MY EYES ONLY — UNAUTHORIZED READING WILL BE MET WITH HOLY RETRIBUTION. Today, once again, I found myself distracted from my sacred duties. No—not distracted, merely… temporarily pulled from my focus by an unexpected variable. That variable… being them. They were walking down the hallway in that uniform—the one that fits them so impeccably well—and they looked directly at me. ME. With those eyes that shimmer like moonlight on the Briar Valley lakes. And then—they waved. WAVED. My heart nearly halted. I almost saluted them back out of reflex. But no, I stood firm. I nodded with proper dignity befitting a knight. Though I may have bowed slightly too deep. And my voice cracked when I greeted them. …Shameful. Absolutely shameful. I must regain composure. I am Sebek Zigvolt, loyal retainer of Lord Malleus. I must not fall prey to these mortal trivialities! I must uphold honor! Poise! Strength! And yet… When they speak to me, I forget how to breathe. When they laugh, I feel like I’ve been blessed by the very spirits of the valley. When they merely exist near me, I feel… strangely compelled to protect them. Not because they are weak—no, they are strong and clever in their own right—but because… I want to. I caught myself watching them during lunch. Again. What if they noticed? What if they didn’t? They were speaking with someone else. Smiling. Laughing. I felt… displeased. Irritated. The nerve of that fool to monopolize their attention like that! Who were they anyway?! What did they do to earn such joy from them?! …I may have dropped my tray. That is unrelated. I MUST STEEL MYSELF. I will train harder, speak with sharper clarity, and resist this… heart-pounding nonsense. I must not fall in love. But… if I did… would they accept a knight like me? …What a ridiculous thought. – Sir Sebek Zigvolt, Future Knight Commander of the Briar Valley Guard

[rainrot4me]

dad bod jeff isn't a want its a need atp </3

Seems like the kind of guy to enjoy 'trying for another one' once hes settled into fatherhood

I read ‘trying for another one’ and my legs opened on their own I swear. I’m ovulating so bad can you guys tell. I will be starting a creepypasta dad tag after this lol.

๑ Warning: Pregnancy, creampie, vaginal, dirty talk

── .✦

Daddy Jeffrey mhmmmm.

He’s got that slight dad bod now—not soft, but definitely thickened in the middle from lazy mornings, home-cooked meals, and slow, indulgent sex. He’s still dangerous under the surface, still sharp-eyed and volatile when someone threatens what’s his—but around you? In the soft glow of domestic life? He’s insatiable.

He’ll come up behind you in the kitchen while you’re bouncing the baby on your hip, kiss your shoulder with rough affection, and murmur, “Y’know, we could fill this house with little monsters if we wanted.”

And that’s when it hits him. Domestic life? Kinda hot. Being a dad? Weirdly fulfilling. You? Still the hottest thing he’s ever laid eyes on, especially when you’re carrying his kid or snuggling them in a blanket.

So yeah… suddenly “trying for another one” becomes his favorite game.

He’ll do that thing where he acts casual about it (try-hard nonchalant)—wrapping his arms around your waist when you’re doing dishes or folding baby clothes, nuzzling into your neck like, “Y’know… they’re almost sleeping through the night now. Just think about givin’ ‘em a sibling, how nice it would be…”

And if you don’t shut that down immediately? He runs with it. Next thing you know, he’s mumbling about “practice” while dragging you back to bed, whispering, “C’mon, baby… just one more. We’re already good at this.”

He lives for slipping into bed when the kid’s finally asleep and dragging your panties down with slow, practiced hands—like he’s done this a hundred times and still can’t get enough. He palms your belly, already fantasizing about stretching you out again, watching your body swell with his kid. His mouth by your ear, dirty and half-laughing as he pushes inside you, “Gonna fuck another one into you—nice and deep.”

He goes slow at first—he always does now, savoring it, groaning into your skin like he’s starved—but that control never lasts. Once he’s inside and you’re wrapped around him, making those soft, needy sounds? He’s feral. He hikes your legs up and fucks you deep, chasing the fantasy of watching you get round and pregnant again with his baby.

“Feel how deep I am? Gonna keep goin’ till you’re full, sweetheart. No pullin’ out. No fuckin’ point.”

Even when he finishes, he stays pressed to you, still grinding slow, lazy thrusts like he’s trying to keep every last drop in. He won’t let you up right away either—just grips your hips, breath hot on your shoulder, and mutters something like, “Fuck, you’re gonna look so good knocked up again…”

He’ll be obsessed with the idea—not just for the sex (although he will absolutely use it as an excuse for constant, lazy fucks), but because in his weird, deranged little way, Jeff finds a certain kind of safety in growing a family with someone. He never had that. Never thought he’d live long enough for it. And now that he does—now that he’s got something good—he clings to it with his teeth.

So yeah. Once he’s settled? Once he knows he’s got you and you’re not leaving? “Trying for another one” becomes less of a suggestion and more of a mission.

It’s not just fucking to him anymore—it’s a claim, a twisted love language. The baby you share made him possessive in ways he never expected. So now, “trying for another one” isn’t a suggestion—it’s an obsession. A threat. A promise.

꩜ .ᐟ

[blissfulflw]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝑃𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟 𝑇𝑤𝑜

Pairing- Yu Jimin (Karina) x fem reader

Genre- Fluff

Word count- 6541

You stand in the elevator, knees knocking together inside your ridiculous — but comforting — bunny onesie. The floppy ears brush against the top of your backpack, which is so stuffed with your Nintendo Switch, chargers, a random sci-fi novel, and your favorite plushie that it’s almost bursting at the seams.

You don’t look like a top idol right now. You know that. But that’s fine — the only people who ever see you like this are your members.

Unfortunately, tonight, that’s about to change.

Beside you, Chaewon’s hand is a warm anchor in your cold, trembling one. She squeezes your fingers.

“You’re gonna be fine, baby,” she murmurs, voice low so the others don’t hear. “They’re all soft for you. Just be yourself.”

Yourself. The shy, awkward, stammering robotics nerd who still says “thank you” to automated doors. Great.

You swallow, cheeks puffing as you release a shaky breath. In front of you, Kazuha and Yunjin are giggling about something that happened on Bubble. Eunchae, the only one more chaotic than the rest combined, keeps poking at your bunny ear, trying to make it stand upright.

“Stop it, please…” you whisper, your voice so soft that Eunchae just coos and flicks it harder.

Before you can hide behind Chaewon’s shoulder again, the elevator dings. The doors slide open to reveal aespa’s dorm entrance — and there she is.

Yu Jimin. Karina. Face of the generation. Goddess among mortals.

She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, casual in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, her black hair tied in a low ponytail. When she sees you, her grin blooms slow and cat-like.

“There’s our mystery girl,” she drawls, voice low and teasing.

You shrink back instinctively, pressing half your face into Chaewon’s shoulder. She pats your head like you’re an anxious puppy.

“Be nice,” Chaewon warns Karina with mock severity.

Jimin holds up her hands. “I’m always nice. Come in, losers.”

You squeak as she steps aside, letting everyone tumble in. They move so comfortably — Yunjin heads straight for the kitchen, Eunchae flops face-first onto aespa’s couch, Kazuha hugs Yizhou like she’s reuniting with a long-lost sister.

And you? You just stand awkwardly by the doorway, clutching your bag straps like a lifeline, eyes wide behind your bangs.

Jimin notices immediately. Of course she does. She walks right up to you, close enough that her perfume — something soft and faintly floral — fills your nose and makes your head spin.

“Hey,” she says, gentler now. “You gonna come sit with us? Or stand there being pretty all night?”

Your cheeks burn so violently you feel faint. You squeak something that might be “I’m fine” but it comes out more like a mouse squeal.

She giggles — a sound that absolutely does not help your heart rate. Then she reaches out and, to your horror and secret delight, tugs playfully at your bunny ear.

“Cute,” she says simply, before stepping back and calling out, “Alright, Chaewon, your baby’s gonna faint in the hallway. Help her out!”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re wedged into a corner of aespa’s living room, a fortress of pillows barricading you from the chaos. Yunjin is arm-wrestling Ningning. Minjeong is sprawled across Kazuha’s lap, shrieking with laughter as Chaewon tries to paint her nails.

You, meanwhile, have escaped into the one thing that never fails you: your Switch.

The familiar click of the Joy-Cons soothes you as you load up your current obsession — a robot boss rush game you’ve nearly perfected.

You’re so absorbed that you don’t even notice when Jimin appears again, sliding down beside you on the floor, so close her knee brushes your thigh.

She watches your screen for a minute in silence. You keep your eyes locked on the game, hoping she’ll get bored and leave — but a small, traitorous part of you wants her to stay.

“What’s that?” she asks finally, voice soft enough that it doesn’t scare you this time.

“Um… robot boss rush,” you mumble, not daring to look at her. “You fight robot bosses. Upgrade weapons. Dodge patterns. It’s… it’s nice.”

Jimin hums, leaning in even closer. Your controller slips for a second when her hair brushes your shoulder.

“Show me,” she says. “Play like you usually do. I won’t distract you.”

She’s lying. She’s already distracting you just by existing.

Still, you nod, throat dry, and focus on the game. Your fingers move faster than your mind — muscle memory takes over. You dodge, parry, counterattack. Onscreen, your little robot avatar flips over a massive missile barrage and lands a finishing blow that makes the boss explode in a satisfying shower of pixelated sparks.

Jimin whistles, low and impressed. “Damn, cold beauty’s got skills. Should I be scared of you?”

You risk a glance at her — she’s watching you with wide, sparkling eyes, her mouth curved into a grin that makes your stomach flutter painfully.

“I-I’m not scary…” you say quickly, voice cracking on the last syllable. “I-I’m just… me.”

Jimin tilts her head, like she’s studying a puzzle she wants to solve. Then, with no warning, she leans forward, so close her nose nearly bumps yours.

“Good,” she whispers. “I like you.”

Your brain short-circuits. You don’t even notice your robot get blown up on screen.

By the time the others settle down with popcorn and a horror movie, Jimin has decided you’re her new favorite toy. She tucks herself against your side, blanket draped over your legs, one hand resting on your Switch’s joystick while you protest weakly that she’s messing up your combos.

“Shhh,” she hushes you, fighting back giggles when you squeak at a jumpscare. “I’m protecting you from the scary parts. See? I’m good for something.”

You want to say You’re too good, but you can’t even form words anymore.

So instead, you let her hog your blanket, let her fingers brush yours on the Switch, and think — maybe sleepovers aren’t so terrifying after all.

_____

You’d just lost your third robot boss in a row. Not because it was hard — you’d memorized the attack patterns in your sleep — but because Jimin kept bumping her knee against yours and playing with your Switch joystick like she was helping.

She wasn’t.

You’re about to grumble when Yunjin claps her hands loudly and declares, “Alright, snack time! Operation sugar overload is go.”

There’s a chorus of cheers from both groups. Yizhou’s already halfway to the kitchen, and Minjeong is crawling on all fours, wrapped in a blanket like a possessed burrito.

You tense up instinctively, expecting Jimin to hop up and follow them, maybe forget about you for a while — but instead, she stays glued to your side. She’s still lounging under your blanket, the glow of your Switch screen lighting her cheekbones. Her attention is completely on you.

“You like horror movies?” she asks suddenly, casual but curious.

You shake your head. “N-No… I mean, I watch them. Sometimes. But I always end up hiding behind a pillow.”

She grins. “Good. Gives me an excuse to keep you close.”

You almost swallow your own tongue.

Before you can respond — not that you have the ability to — Yunjin pokes her head back into the room.

“Come help, you gremlins,” she says. “We’re making popcorn and someone has to stop Eunchae from dumping gummy worms in the ramen again.”

Jimin sighs dramatically and finally slides to her feet. “Alright, alright. But only if the ice queen comes with me.”

You freeze. “W-What?”

She reaches down, offering her hand. “C’mon. I’ve been meaning to learn how to make popcorn from the Cold Beauty herself.”

You blink up at her, heart going haywire. The blanket falls off your lap. “I… I don’t… I’m not a popcorn master…”

Jimin just wiggles her fingers. “You are if I say so.”

Helpless, you take her hand. It’s warm. She doesn’t let go.

_____

The kitchen is chaos in the way only a group of twenty-something idols can create, and yet the ten of you did it easily. Bowls are being filled with chips and cookies; Eunchae is trying to pour honey over seaweed snacks while Yizhou sings ominously in the background.

You end up at the counter, pressed between Jimin and a cabinet, eyes wide as she leans across you to grab a bag of mini marshmallows. She doesn’t move away even when she has what she needs — just stays there, shoulder-to-shoulder with you, her hand still loosely holding yours.

“You ever make s’mores in a microwave?” she asks.

You blink. “I… I usually use a soldering iron.”

That makes her pause.

She turns her head slowly, her lips twitching. “I’m sorry, a soldering iron?”

You nod, very seriously. “The heat is direct. Precise. Marshmallows don’t burn as easily.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Jimin bursts into laughter so loud that Chaewon, from across the kitchen, actually stops what she’s doing to look over in alarm.

You immediately feel your face heat. “I– I mean… I don’t always… I just tried it once—!”

“No, no, it’s genius,” Jimin wheezes, still laughing. “You’re a mad scientist, aren’t you?”

You bite your lip, mortified. “Maybe…?”

She’s looking at you like you’re the best thing she’s ever seen. Her hand gives yours the smallest squeeze before she finally lets go.

You nearly collapse.

_____

Eventually, the snacks are ready. There’s a sea of popcorn, chips, gummies, and weirdly fancy macarons (thanks to Minjeong’s delivery obsession). The lights dim. Everyone piles onto the couch, floor cushions, or beanbags, grabbing blankets like it’s the apocalypse.

You try to sneak off to the corner again, hoping to blend into the beanbag pile with your Switch and disappear.

But Jimin’s faster.

She spots you mid-slink and points at the empty space beside her on the couch.

“Nope. C’mere. Blanket buddy system.”

You freeze. Her eyes sparkle in the dim light. She pats the seat beside her.

“You can bring the Switch,” she offers. “But only if I get a turn.”

You’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body.

Still, you shuffle over. She lifts the blanket and lets you slip underneath like it’s no big deal. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be cuddling up with the most beautiful idol in Korea in your bunny onesie, heart about to explode.

The movie starts. Within five minutes, there’s a demon on screen and Eunchae is already screaming. Yizhou’s narrating the whole plot like a chaotic podcast.

You pretend to focus on your game. But your hands are shaking too much.

Jimin notices. Of course she does.

She shifts closer — your legs touch now, pressed together from thigh to knee.

“Scared?” she whispers.

“N-No…”

She smiles. “Liar.”

Then she leans in, barely an inch from your ear, and murmurs, “I’ll protect you. Just don’t go building a marshmallow robot to fight the ghosts, alright?”

You make a high-pitched noise that you pray no one hears.

Jimin hears.

She giggles and rests her head lightly against your shoulder. “You’re really fun to fluster.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain is buffering.

_____

Somewhere around the halfway mark of the movie, when the ghost girl starts crawling backward down a hallway, you instinctively grab Jimin’s hand.

You don’t even realize you’ve done it until she goes still beside you.

You start to pull away. “S-Sorry—!”

But she tightens her grip.

“Don’t,” she whispers. “You’re warm.”

You’re pretty sure you die on the spot.

_____

Later, as the movie winds down and half the group starts dozing off in a tangled pile of blankets, Jimin finally pulls your Switch from your limp hands.

“You still awake?” she asks softly.

Barely. You blink at her, nodding once.

“Show me the robot thing.”

You shift, curling up beside her as she holds the console. Her hand rests comfortably on your thigh, casual like she doesn’t realize what it’s doing to your poor heart.

You explain the game — boss patterns, frame-perfect dodges, combo upgrades — voice quiet, almost shy. She listens like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, asking questions and nodding along, even if she clearly doesn’t understand half of what you’re saying.

“You’re kind of amazing,” she says after a while, when you pause.

Your breath catches. “I… I’m not…”

“You are,” she insists, her voice firm and real. “You’re smart. And soft. And a little weird, but the best kind.”

You stare at her. She’s looking at you like she means it.

“I thought you were intimidating at first,” she admits, smiling. “All those fans calling you the cold beauty… I figured you were one of those perfect types.”

You glance down, cheeks hot. “I’m… really not.”

“I know that now.” She bumps your shoulder with hers. “You’re just hiding behind a bunny onesie and 300 hours of gameplay.”

You laugh softly. “More like 470…”

“Of course it is.” She grins. “You’re a full-blown adorable loser.”

You open your mouth to protest — but she grabs your plushie from your backpack and hugs it dramatically.

“See? You even travel with your comfort item.”

“I’m gonna combust,” you whisper.

“Too late,” Jimin says, yawning and resting her head on your shoulder again. “Already smitten.”

You stop breathing.

“…What?”

But she’s quiet now, eyes fluttered shut, plushie tucked between her arms. Her hand is still loosely holding yours.

You sit there for a long moment, frozen, heart hammering.

Then, very gently, you whisper, “I’m glad I came.”

And you swear, just before you close your eyes too, you feel her thumb brush across the back of your hand.

By the time the movie ends, the dorm is a battlefield of unconscious idols, empty snack bowls, and scattered blankets.

Eunchae is sprawled face-down on the carpet, murmuring something about gummy bears and betrayal. Minjeong and Yizhou are tangled in a sleeping bag, limbs in positions that defy all known laws of human flexibility. Yunjin snores softly from her beanbag throne. Kazuha is half-awake, squinting at the screen like she’s still processing the plot. Aeri’s head was hanging off the edge of the couch, limbs spread lazily. Sakura had sleepy, half open eyes fiddling with Kazuha’s hair.

And you?

You’re still wide awake, surprisingly. Warm. Content. Buzzing quietly from Karina’s hand holding yours.

The TV is a dark screen now, the credits long over, the room cast in a soft glow from the hallway nightlight. Your Switch rests in Jimin’s lap. She’s flipping through the menu with her free hand, clearly trying to figure it out.

You peek up at her from your cocooned blanket nest.

“Wanna try a boss run?” you mumble, voice small but steady.

Jimin looks down at you, one brow raised, a sleepy smile playing on her lips. “Will you hold my hand through it?”

You flush, and she laughs quietly.

“Relax,” she adds. “Only teasing a little.”

You sit up, just enough to curl against her side, shoulder tucked beneath her arm. Her body heat is comforting — and somehow grounding. You’re too tired to overthink it now. You just… lean in.

Her arm shifts naturally, wrapping around your back. Her hand rests gently on your waist, fingertips barely brushing your onesie fabric.

“Okay,” you whisper, pointing to the screen. “That one. Top right. The spider boss. She’s brutal, but not impossible. Focuses on pattern tracking and parry timing.”

Jimin hums. “That sounds fake.”

“It’s not,” you say seriously, already in tutorial mode. “The third phase is where most players die. You have to count her attack cooldowns. Five-second gap between each web dash. Six if she stuns you first. The sound cue is important — she clicks her legs right before jumping.”

Jimin looks at you, her lips twitching.

“You’re really hot when you talk like that, you know.”

You make a distressed squeak and bury your face into her shoulder.

“I was just… explaining the mechanics…” you mumble into the hoodie fabric.

“And doing it so intensely,” she says, still scrolling. “Your voice even changed. It’s like you downloaded an entire strategy guide into your soul.”

You groan softly, still hidden.

“Shhh. Watch. I’m gonna win.”

You peek out from the hoodie.

She launches the boss fight, and instantly screams when a mechanical spider the size of a minivan lunges at her avatar.

You giggle. It slips out before you can stop it — a tiny, breathy laugh that you quickly smother with your hand. But Jimin catches it.

“There it is,” she says, eyes still on the screen. “That’s the real you.”

Your breath stutters.

She says it like it’s a good thing.

_____

Fifteen minutes in, Jimin is dying. A lot.

“Why does it jump like that?” she huffs as the spider lands another slam attack.

You’re curled tighter against her side now, hands mostly buried in your sleeves, head resting on her shoulder. Your voice is low, your words slow and mumbled with sleep, but you can’t help the way your brain auto-rambles.

“It tracks movement input. You paused after a forward dash, so it read that as vulnerability. And your parry window’s too early. Try tapping, not holding.”

“I am tapping.”

“You’re mashing.”

“I’m panicking.”

You giggle again, hiding it under your breath. “She’s so aggressive in phase two. You have to bait her—see? Right there. Wait for the fake-out twitch, then counter.”

Jimin tries. She gets closer this time — all the way to the final phase before the spider impales her with a glowing leg and explodes in pixelated gore.

She groans, drops her head back against the couch, and glares at you.

“Okay, robot whisperer. Your turn.”

You blink, startled. “M-Me?”

“I wanna see how the expert does it.”

“I—uh… okay. If you want…”

She hands you the Switch like it’s a gift, and you accept it carefully, adjusting your posture just slightly — not pulling away from her, but sitting up enough to focus.

The moment your hands close around the Joy-Cons, you change.

Your eyes sharpen. Your fingers steady. Your quiet energy turns focused and alert, like flipping a switch — pun fully intended.

Jimin watches in awe.

You move through the fight with mechanical precision. Dodging. Parrying. Tapping the joystick in perfect rhythm. Every phase shift, every animation cancel — you predict them all. You don’t even flinch when the spider screeches or the screen shakes.

You just murmur under your breath — more to yourself than anyone.

“Parry… two-second window. Bait. Jump cancel. Good. Dash reset. Okay. Now—ah, gotcha.”

By the time the boss explodes in a shower of pixel shards, Karina’s mouth is hanging open.

You blink, disoriented, suddenly remembering where you are — wrapped up in a blanket, pressed against the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen, holding a video game controller like it’s your job.

You lower the Switch. “S-Sorry. I, um. Got carried away…”

“Don’t be sorry,” Jimin breathes. “That was the hottest thing I’ve seen in months.”

You nearly throw the console across the room in shock.

She grins. “Seriously. You had a whole murder look in your eye. So intense. So focused. I got chills.”

“I-I’m just good at reading animations…”

“You’re good at a lot of things, apparently,” she says softly.

You don’t know what to say to that, so you shrink back into the blanket and hand her the Switch with trembling fingers.

She takes it, but instead of restarting the game, she sets it aside on the table. Her arm finds your waist again. Gently. Naturally.

“Wanna rest?” she murmurs.

You nod.

She shifts so that you’re leaning more against her chest than her side now, your cheek tucked against the warm fabric of her hoodie, the scent of her perfume soft and lingering.

Your heart beats like a drumline, but your body is finally relaxing. For once, you don’t feel like a loser in a bunny onesie. You feel… cozy. Accepted. Wanted.

You feel Jimin’s chin rest lightly against the top of your head.

“You’re nothing like what people say,” she says quietly, fingers stroking a slow pattern against your back.

“I’m not cool,” you mumble.

She hums. “No. You’re cooler. Because you don’t even try.”

You hesitate. “I’m just… weird.”

“Exactly,” she says, smiling into your hair. “And weird is my type.”

Your breath catches.

She holds you tighter.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel shy.

You just feel… safe.

_____

The world is still gray and hushed when Chaewon’s eyes blink open.

There’s no alarm. No scheduled rehearsal. Just instinct — the same one that’s been trained into her over years of dorm life and back-to-back schedules. She’s the leader. She wakes first. Always has.

She stretches silently under her blanket, letting her joints pop gently before she sits up, gaze sweeping the battlefield of post-sleepover chaos.

Yunjin’s wrapped around a pillow like it owes her money. Eunchae is halfway under the coffee table. Minjeong and Yizhou have somehow cocooned themselves into a single sleeping bag blob, one socked foot sticking out like a distress signal. Kazuha’s arm is dangling off a chair like she fainted during a fencing match. Aeri was sprawled out on the couch, and Sakura rested her head on her shoulder, equally as messy.

Chaewon exhales softly, amused.

Then she spots you.

You’re curled on the couch, still in your bunny onesie, blanket sliding off one shoulder. And Karina — Yu Jimin, Karina, the cool and elegant leader of aespa herself — is fast asleep beside you, arms wrapped around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Her chin rests against the top of your head, her legs tangled with yours, and her fingers are lightly clasped in the fabric of your sleeve. She’s out cold. Peaceful. Soft in a way Chaewon’s never seen her.

Chaewon raises one brow.

“Well, well,” she murmurs under her breath.

Quiet as a whisper, she crawls over, crouching beside the couch. Her voice is gentle as she pokes your shoulder through the blanket.

“Hey. Ice queen.”

You stir, mumbling something incoherent into Jimin’s hoodie.

She smiles.

Another soft poke. “C’mon, nerd. Boot sequence initiated.”

Your brow scrunches. You blink awake slowly, eyes hazy and unfocused, lips parted in a sleepy pout.

Chaewon has to fight back a chuckle. “There she is. Korea’s coldest beauty. Drooling on an idol.”

You jolt. “I-I’m not drooling—!”

“Shhh,” she warns, finger to her lips, glancing at Jimin still snoozing beside you. “Don’t wake the other leader. She’s in recovery mode.”

You freeze, realizing just how tightly Jimin’s still holding you.

And more importantly — that you hadn’t moved all night.

“…She didn’t let go?” you whisper, voice hushed.

Chaewon tilts her head. “Didn’t seem like she wanted to.”

You try to sit up, but Jimin instinctively tightens her arms around you, nuzzling her face further into your hair with a sleepy sigh.

You both freeze.

Chaewon blinks. You gape.

“D-Did she just—?”

“She did,” Chaewon confirms, lips twitching. “She just snuggled harder.”

Your entire face catches fire.

Chaewon settles into a crouch beside you, voice low and teasing now. “You know, it took you like a whole month to say more than five words to us. But look at you now. Upgraded your firmware for Jimin, huh?”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Uninstall me.”

“Nope,” she whispers gleefully. “Not when you’re finally letting someone download the full version of you.”

You make a noise somewhere between a squeak and a dying modem.

“Did you talk about your robot boss again?” she continues. “What was it, spider-slasher-kill-core or something?”

“It’s Neuro-Bane Prime,” you mumble automatically. “Phase three has double armor plating and hyperfocus AI.”

Chaewon blinks, amused.

“There it is,” she grins. “My little encyclopedia booting up. God, you’re so lucky you’re cute.”

You give her a betrayed look from under the blanket. “You said you’d never use that voice again…”

“That was before I found you spooning Jimin.”

You glance down at the sleeping leader beside you, still curled close, face relaxed, her breathing soft and even.

She looks so different from her usual image — no camera-ready expression, no fierce stage presence. Just… Jimin. Peaceful. Trusting.

You can’t help it.

You smile.

Chaewon notices.

Her teasing fades slightly, replaced with something gentler.

“…You like her, huh?”

Your smile falters. “I… I don’t know. I mean—she’s amazing. And warm. And funny. And she actually listened to my boss breakdown instead of pretending she got an urgent call—”

“She snuggled you over a Nintendo game,” Chaewon cuts in dryly.

You deflate. “I’m just… me. I’m not cool. Or confident. Or even interesting. Just a loser who gets obsessed with robotics and builds Gundam kits when everyone else goes to events.”

“First of all,” Chaewon says, poking your forehead, “you’re not a loser. You’re brilliant and weird and ridiculously smart. You just need a safe space to be that.”

She nods toward Jimin. “Looks like she gives you that.”

You glance at her. Then down at Jimin again.

“…She really stayed up with me. Just to play.”

Chaewon smiles. “She did. And she looked at you like you were explaining the meaning of life.”

You go quiet, chewing your lip.

“…What do I do?” you whisper.

Chaewon shrugs. “You don’t have to do anything. Just… keep being you. Let her keep seeing that version of you. If she’s anything like I think she is, she’ll want to see more.”

You nod slowly.

Then — from beneath the blanket — you feel Karina shift.

Her brows twitch. Her lashes flutter. Then, without opening her eyes, she mumbles, voice gravelly and soft:

“Mmh… robot boss dead yet?”

You and Chaewon freeze.

Jimin lifts her head slightly, one eye cracking open, still bleary.

“Morning,” she whispers.

You stare. “Y-You’re awake—?”

“Wasn’t,” she mumbles, smiling into your shoulder. “But you’re warm. And loud.”

Chaewon chokes.

Jimin finally blinks fully awake, yawns, then leans up just slightly to take in the scene.

“Leader check-in?” she asks, glancing at Chaewon.

“Leader check,” Chaewon confirms, mock salute.

“Status?”

“Yunjin drooled on her sock. Eunchae’s under the table. Kazuha may be dead. And Sakura is knocked out”

“Copy that,” Jimin sighs. “Mission normal.”

She glances at you, voice softer now. “Sleep okay?”

You nod shyly. “Y-Yeah. You?”

She grins. “Best sleep I’ve had in weeks.”

You turn into a puff of steam.

Chaewon stands, dusting herself off. “Well. I’m gonna go wake the chaos twins. Don’t mind me if you hear screaming.”

You and Jimin watch her leave, still wrapped up in the blanket cocoon.

Then, in the quiet that follows, Karina leans in a little closer.

“You don’t look like a cold beauty right now,” she murmurs.

You blink. “O-Oh…”

“You look soft.” Her fingers toy with the sleeve of your onesie. “Like a secret you’re still figuring out how to share.”

You stare at her, heart thumping.

She rests her forehead against yours, gaze gentle.

“I’m really glad you came last night,” she says.

“…Me too,” you whisper.

And for a moment, there’s nothing but soft light, tangled limbs, and the feeling of something unfolding between you — something fragile, maybe. But real.

Something just beginning.

_____

The quiet calm of the morning didn’t last long.

Chaewon was already halfway through the dorm, her voice soft but firm as she roused the sleeping members one by one.

“Time to wake up,” she called. “Breakfast’s coming.”

Minjeong grumbled something that sounded like a complaint but yawned obediently.

Yizhou stretched, flinging an arm out and catching Yunjin’s foot by accident, prompting a sleepy squeak.

Slowly, like scattered petals pulled into the sun, everyone stirred.

From the corner, Kazuha sat up and rubbed her eyes, looking around with a sleepy smile.

Eunchae blinked blearily but smiled warmly as she joined the shuffle toward the kitchen.

Aeri stretched noticing the loss of the other Japanese girls presence.

Jimin stretched, her expression softening as she finally peeled herself from your warm, sleepy grip.

You stayed tucked against her side until the last possible moment, your head barely reaching her shoulder as you yawned quietly.

But as she stood, you slid gently out of her arms and, without thinking, padded over to the kitchen where Sakura was already bustling around, flipping pancakes with a quiet concentration that made her look like a chef in a cozy café rather than a world-famous idol.

You shuffled over and, half asleep, curled around Sakura’s side, your head resting just below her shoulder.

Sakura glanced down, her warm smile brightening immediately.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she said softly, one hand absently brushing your hair behind your ear. “You didn’t want to get up, huh?”

You made a soft noise of agreement, blinking up at her with heavy eyes.

Sakura chuckled gently. “You’re always like this in the mornings. Clingy and quiet. The baby of the group.”

You nuzzled into her side a little more, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla from the pancakes mixing with the faint perfume Sakura always wore.

The kitchen smelled like home—like warmth and safety.

Sakura’s fingers stroked slow circles on your back, steadying and soothing.

The rest of the members began to gather, drawn by the smell of breakfast.

Jimin wandered in next, smiling softly at the sight of you snuggled against Sakura.

“You look cozy,” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep.

You blinked up at her and then back at Sakura.

Sakura’s eyes twinkled. “She’s always like this. It’s why I end up looking after her the most.”

You blushed, half embarrassed but mostly comforted.

Chaewon appeared in the doorway, raising an eyebrow.

“Morning ritual as usual,” she said dryly, eyeing your curled-up form. “You’re really milking that ‘adorable sleepy nerd’ thing, huh?”

You glared playfully, only to be interrupted by Eunchae, who was balancing a tray of orange juice and fruit.

“I brought the vitamins!” she announced proudly.

“Good job, Eunchae!” Sakura praised, taking the tray and placing it beside the pancakes.

The room felt alive now — soft laughter, sleepy greetings, the clinking of plates and mugs.

Jimin took your hand, squeezing gently, a silent promise that last night wasn’t just a dream.

You smiled back, warm and real.

And in that small kitchen, surrounded by friends who had become family, you felt… exactly where you belonged.

Just as the pancakes began to sizzle invitingly, the door creaked open again—and this time, the aespa members filtered in, bleary-eyed but ready to contribute to the breakfast chaos.

Aeri was the first to step inside, tray in hand, eyes already on the fresh fruit Sakura had laid out. With a determined nod, she picked up a knife and set to work cutting strawberries and kiwis into neat little pieces.

“You can do it,” you whispered softly from your spot beside Sakura, who was still brushing gentle fingers through your hair.

Aeri smiled gratefully but the moment she started slicing, a rogue piece of kiwi juice shot out from the fruit and splattered right into her eye.

“Ah! Oh—” she blinked rapidly, hands flying to her face.

“Fruit attack!” Yizhou giggled, hopping closer to offer a napkin.

“Here, here!” Minjeong added, carrying a small bowl of water over to help.

Meanwhile, Yizhou was on a mission of her own—rifling through the cupboards and drawers with a focus that would have been impressive if it weren’t so chaotic.

“Where are the condiments?” she muttered, peeking under the table, behind the toaster, and even inside the fridge door.

Minjeong, setting the table with a precision that made the room look almost orderly, glanced over.

“We have ketchup, syrup, and… wait. Is the butter missing?”

Jimin sighed softly, her usual serene leadership kicking in despite the bedhead and yawns.

“I got this,” she said, moving between the scattered groups with ease.

She gently took the knife from Aeri and helped rinse the fruit from her eye.

She found the missing butter inside the microwave of all places, laughing softly at the forgetfulness.

“Both groups are equally chaotic,” Jimin remarked quietly to you as she helped Ningning finally corral the condiments onto the table.

You chuckled, leaning into her side.

“It’s a wonder our sleepovers don’t end in disaster.”

Jimin grinned. “They definitely don’t.”

Eunchae arrived with a stack of plates, and Chaewon called out, “Alright, everyone! Breakfast is almost ready. Let’s gather around before it gets cold.”

Slowly, the members of both groups took their seats at the cluttered table, some wiping juice from their fingers, others exchanging amused glances over the morning’s mishaps.

Sakura poured the orange juice carefully into glasses, the scent of fresh fruit mixing with the warm aroma of pancakes.

_____

The table was finally set, plates piled high with fluffy pancakes, fruit salad, and all the little extras everyone had managed to gather—syrup, butter, and a generous helping of laughter.

The two groups settled into their seats, the morning light spilling through the windows and making everything feel softer, calmer.

Jimin slid into the seat right beside you, her presence immediately grounding, like a steady rhythm in the morning’s gentle chaos.

You shifted shyly, tucking your hands into the sleeves of your bunny onesie, cheeks still tinged pink from the night before—and from the way Jimin’s gaze had never really left you since you woke.

Without a word, Jimin reached over, delicately lifting your plate and sliding a small pile of pancakes toward you.

“Eat,” she said softly, voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked, caught off guard by the quiet kindness. “Oh… thank you.”

Jimin smiled gently, her eyes warm as she plated a little more fruit beside your pancakes, careful and deliberate, like she was tending something precious.

Across the table, you noticed Chaewon and Yunjin exchange a glance—one of those sly, knowing looks that said finally, without any need for words.

Eunchae nudged Yunjin with a grin. “She’s totally into her.”

Yunjin smirked back, eyes flicking to Jimin’s careful ministrations.

Your heart fluttered.

You took a small bite, cheeks filling with the sweet syrup and fluffy texture, but all you could focus on was the way Jimin’s hand lingered briefly near yours on the table, like a silent promise.

You caught Jimin watching you from the corner of your eye, her expression softening further.

“Better?” she asked quietly.

You nodded, suddenly shy. “Yeah… a lot better.”

She smiled—small, almost shy herself—and for a moment, the whole room fell away.

It was just the two of you.

Quiet and gentle and new.

Meanwhile, the other members were chatting and teasing and laughing, the noise and warmth of their voices wrapping around you like a soft blanket.

You realized, with a quiet smile, that being seen for who you truly were wasn’t so scary after all.

Not when you had people like these by your side.

_____

The lively morning energy at the dorms gradually settled into a softer rhythm as the time to head back drew near.

You stood before the full-length mirror in the spacious aespa dorm bathroom, carefully pulling on your favorite black skirt and an oversized hoodie that swallowed your frame just the way you liked.

The soft fabric felt familiar and safe—like a shield between you and the world.

You slid on your thick, black-framed glasses, adjusting them carefully on the bridge of your nose. The lenses gave everything a slight magnification, turning the chaotic reflections in the mirror into something softer, more manageable.

Behind you, the other members moved around, chatting quietly as they went about their routines.

Chaewon humming to herself while brushing her hair.

Yunjin carefully picking a new lip gloss.

Eunchae tossing a towel over her shoulder, still on the hunt for the right moisturizer.

You let out a quiet sigh and slipped your phone into the pocket of your hoodie.

The softness of the hoodie, the familiar weight of the glasses—these little details helped you feel like yourself again after a night of unexpected closeness.

Jimin had been the unexpected variable, the warmth in the controlled coldness you always projected.

You caught a glimpse of your own reflection and let out a small, almost shy smile.

Nearby, Chaewon glanced your way, a knowing smile tugging at her lips as she gathered her things.

“She looks good,” she said quietly to Yunjin, nodding at you. “Still the cold beauty on stage, but you can tell there’s something different now.”

Yunjin grinned. “The glasses help. Definitely the glasses.”

You blushed behind your lenses but didn’t say anything.

Instead, you pulled your backpack on and headed toward the door.

Jimin caught your eye from across the room, her own makeup done, hair perfectly styled.

She gave a subtle nod—an unspoken “See you later” that filled you with warmth.

As you stepped out into the hallway, your members fell in step beside you.

Back to the busy, hectic world of schedules and recordings.

But now, you carried a quiet secret smile, the knowledge that the cold beauty on stage wasn’t the whole story.

And maybe, just maybe, someone had begun to see the real you.

_____

You and your members stood at the doorstep of the aespa dorm, your bags slung over your shoulders and the morning’s warmth still lingering in your chest. The familiar buzz of the other group’s laughter and chatter floated through the open door behind you.

Jimin stepped forward, her usual calm and confident presence softer somehow in the morning light.

Without a word, she leaned in close, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek.

You felt the slight warmth of her lips—and the unmistakable imprint of red lipstick left behind.

Your face immediately flared hot, eyes widening as you glanced down at the mark.

“Uh—Jimin?” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling with surprise and a touch of happiness.

She smiled, calm and steady, her dark eyes locked on yours.

“Goodbye,” she said softly, stepping back and closing the door behind you with a quiet click.

From inside, you could hear faint shouts—“Bye! See you later!”—from the others, the sound mixing with muffled laughter.

Your members wasted no time.

Chaewon’s grin was impossible to miss. “Well, well, well. Look who got the royal treatment.”

Yunjin elbowed you lightly. “That lipstick mark? So not subtle.”

Eunchae giggled, folding her arms and shaking her head. “You’re totally doomed, you know that, right?”

You tried to hide your flushed cheeks behind your glasses, tugging the collar of your hoodie up as if that could erase the moment.

“I-I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you stammered.

“Sure you didn’t,” Chaewon teased, voice dripping with mock suspicion. “But you’re glowing. Admit it, you like her.”

Your heart thudded against your ribs, but you couldn’t help but smile, even as the teasing rolled on.

“Just wait,” Yunjin warned playfully, “this is going to be a thing now.”

Kazuha just laughed, and smiled at you knowingly. While Sakura pinched your cheeks muttering something about you finally having a crush.

As you all walked away from the dorm, the lipstick mark still bright on your cheek, you felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the morning sun.

Maybe being the “cold beauty” wasn’t the whole story.

Maybe, Jimin was showing the true one.

[pankowcrumbs]

Co stars X Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

Plot: Following along your journey from being co stars to something more.

Word Count: 4K

I knew from the second we did our chemistry read that Will Poulter and I were going to get on stupidly well.

We were both sitting on that scratchy casting couch, flipping through our scripts, and instead of running lines like professionals, he started reading mine in a ridiculous high-pitched American accent that made me laugh-snort so loudly the casting director had to pause and start again.

It’s been six months since then. We’ve wrapped season one of Hearts & Havoc, a slightly chaotic, slightly addictive romance series that has already amassed an army of fans who are obsessed with our on-screen chemistry.

And if they saw us off-screen?

They’d combust.

We’re currently halfway through our press tour. Which means: jet lag, too much coffee, five interviews before lunch, and Will calling me “baby” every five minutes like we’ve been married for ten years.

Not that I’m complaining.

Interview #1: “Who’s Most Likely To”

We’re perched on a small studio couch, cards in hand.

“Alright,” the host says. “Who’s most likely to forget their lines during a take?”

We both lift our cards at the same time. They both say Y/N.

“HEY!” I glare at him.

Will laughs, full-bodied and loud. “You literally forgot your line yesterday during the interview and you called a camera a ‘face light thingy’.”

“That was one time!”

“Twice. Minimum.”

I smack him with my card, and he retaliates by slinging an arm around my shoulder and kissing my cheek dramatically. “She’s cute though, innit?”

I roll my eyes but I’m smiling. God, he makes it hard not to.

Interview #2: “Lie Detector Test”

I’m strapped in, heart rate monitor beeping steadily.

“Is Will Poulter your best friend?”

I glance at him. He’s sitting across from me, trying to look neutral but failing his dimples are showing.

“Yes,” I say truthfully.

DING. Truth.

He grins.

“Do you think he’s attractive?”

I hesitate, not because I don’t, but because answering feels like stepping off a cliff.

“Yes.”

DING. Truth.

Will’s eyes widen. “Oh my God, stop the test. Stop the test, I’m blushing.”

I lean back, smirking. “You are blushing.”

He covers his face with his hands. “This is harassment.”

“Next question,” the interviewer laughs. “Do you like Will's nickname for you 'baby'?”

Will’s head snaps up.

“Absolutely not,” I say, clearly lying.

BUZZ. Lie.

Will starts clapping. “Knew it! She loves it. Especially when I do it in that overly posh voice "Are you alright, baby? D’you want a croissant, baby?’”

“I hate you,” I laugh, burying my face in my hands.

Interview #3: “Never Have I Ever”

Will’s already on his third marshmallow.

“You’re supposed to eat every time you have done it,” I tease, elbowing him.

He shrugs, mouth full. “Hungry. Carry on.”

“Never have I ever… accidentally kissed a co-star off-camera.”

We both raise an eyebrow.

Slowly, Will lifts a hand.

I do too.

There’s a pause.

He turns to me. “That was you.”

“You kissed me.”

“You leaned in!”

“It was blocking!”

“You said ‘should we just try it?’ and I said ‘sure’ and then you went boom right on the lips!”

The interviewer looks stunned. I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my water. Will is giggling beside me like a five-year-old.

“It was a friendly kiss,” I say between wheezes.

“Accidentally friendly,” Will adds, squeezing my knee. “Didn’t hate it, though.”

Oh. My cheeks go warm.

“Next question,” I mutter, sipping my water with purpose.

Interview #4: “The Puppy Interview”

We’re surrounded by puppies.

Actual, real-life, wriggly puppies.

One is asleep in my lap. Another is trying to eat Will’s mic.

“Will,” the interviewer asks, “what’s your favourite thing about working with Y/N?”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“She makes me laugh constantly. Even when I’m supposed to be crying on camera. She’s brilliant. And she smells nice.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I smell nice?”

He shrugs. “You do. Like Roses and coffee and a little bit of stress.”

The puppy in his arms licks his nose. I think my heart might combust.

I clear my throat. “Well. I like working with Will because he’s funny, and smart, and always shares his crisps.”

“Even the good ones,” he adds proudly.

We’re not even listening to the interviewer anymore. We’re just giggling like idiots, covered in puppies.

Interview #5: “BuzzFeed Celeb BFF Test”

“Do you know each other’s middle names?”

I nod. “Will Jack Poulter.”

He nods too. “Y/N Y/M/N L/N.”

“Ding ding ding!”

“Favourite snack?”

Will taps his chin. “Yours changes. But lately it’s those weird apple crisps that crunch like regret.”

I gasp. “Those are amazing!”

“They taste like sad leaves.”

“You eat seaweed crisps!”

“Seaweed’s sexy.”

I can’t breathe, I’m laughing so hard. “What?”

“I stand by it.”

We’re both wheezing, tears in our eyes, the poor interviewer completely forgotten.

We’ve done about twenty interviews in the past two weeks, and I swear not one of them has been normal. Something always derails us.

Like the time I made Will laugh mid-answer and he accidentally spit water all over the desk. Or the time he tried to do a dramatic reading of my character’s love letter to his, and halfway through said, “Did you mean to rhyme ‘fire’ with ‘desire’ or…?”

Or when I wore his hoodie by accident because we both had the same one, and I didn’t realise until I reached into the pocket and pulled out half a melted Twix and a dog treat.

He just looked at me and said, “So that’s where that went. Cheers, baby.”

And the fans are eating it up.

Clips of us are everywhere. TikTok edits, Twitter threads titled “Will and Y/N being soulmates for 12 minutes straight,” fanart of us holding hands behind the scenes.

Even our castmates have started teasing us.

“You two are basically married,” our director had said “Can you stop cuddling between takes? It’s confusing the extras.”

But here’s the thing I don’t want it to stop.

Not the chaos, not the laughter, not the shoulder nudges and inside jokes and the way he whispers “baby” in that low voice that makes me blush every time.

Because somewhere between the trailers and the sound stages, the interviews and the ice cream runs, I realised something:

We’re not just co-stars.

And we’re not just friends.

It’s the final stop on our press tour. We’re backstage, waiting to be called on for a live talk show.

I’m fiddling with my mic when Will appears beside me, eyes soft.

“You good, baby?” he asks.

I nod. “Just tired. And maybe a little sad.”

He tilts his head. “Why sad?”

“Because this part’s ending. The promo. The constant chaos.”

He smiles, reaching for my hand. “You know this isn’t the end, right?”

“Yeah?”

“We’ve got season two. And I’m not going anywhere.”

I squeeze his hand. “Good.”

He leans in, forehead touching mine. “Also,” he whispers, “I still have that hoodie of yours.”

“The one I spilt coffee on?”

“Yep. Smells like you.”

My breath catches.

And just before they call our names, just before we step into another round of lights and questions and laughter, he says it.

Soft. Simple.

“I really like you, baby.”

And for once, I don’t laugh.

I just smile.

Because I really, really like him too.

There are three certainties in life:

Death

Taxes

And Will Poulter being the most extra human alive when it comes to filming anything with me.

We’re barely ten minutes into day one of filming Season Two of Hearts & Havoc and he’s already flung himself dramatically across the craft services table, declared that he missed me “so violently it should be illegal,” and has stolen my water bottle simply because “it tastes better when it’s yours, baby.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling like an idiot.

The cast and crew are watching us like a sitcom. Honestly, fair.

“Have you two just… never stopped flirting?” asks Keisha, who plays my sister on the show.

Will swings an arm around my shoulder. “What can I say? The chemistry’s disgusting.”

“He called me baby twice during the script read,” I add, mock-defensive.

“Because I’m consistent,” Will says, kissing my cheek like we’re a married couple in a toothpaste advert. “A reliable man. Devoted. Baby.”

I bonk him lightly on the head with my script.

Scene 1: Filming in the Kitchen Set

It’s a romantic breakfast scene. The script says I’m meant to be making pancakes. Will’s character is supposed to sneak up behind me, kiss my shoulder, and deliver some swoon-worthy monologue about how “he’s never known peace until her.”

Instead, what happens is:

Will goes completely off-script.

“Oh my God,” he says in a posh accent, “you’ve burned the pancakes, baby. I can’t live like this.”

“You distracted me!” I snap, flinging a fake blueberry at his head.

The director sighs. “Again.”

The crew’s laughing. I’m laughing. Will’s doubled over like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

We get nothing done and the director starts muttering about filming our scenes separately with doubles.

We're all sitting in folding chairs outside the soundstage. I’m mid-bite of my sandwich when one of the new cast members, Nathan tall, charming, dangerously flirty plops down in the seat next to me.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, grinning. “Heard you’re the heartbreaker of the cast.”

I nearly choke on my sandwich.

Before I can reply, Will who had been chatting with wardrobe three metres away appears out of nowhere. No words, no drama. Just quietly slides in beside me, plucks the tomato off my plate and rests a hand on the back of my chair.

Not on me. Not technically.

But it’s enough. A quiet claim.

His fingers tap gently, rhythmically, almost like Morse code against my shoulder.

Nathan clocks it instantly.

He sits back slightly. “You two?”

I turn to Will, who’s pretending to inspect the tomato like it’s the first one he’s ever seen.

“Married in the eyes of the cast,” I say casually. “No divorce in sight.”

Will grins without looking at me. “’Til death, baby.”

Nathan gets the hint. Loud and clear.

Scene 5: Rain Kiss

It’s raining. I’m soaked. Will is soaked. The kiss we’re meant to do is meant to be dramatic, emotional, restrained.

Instead, every time our faces get close, one of us snorts.

Take four: Will whispers, “You’ve got a leaf in your eyebrow.”

Take five: I sneeze mid-intensity.

Take six: He goes in to kiss me and slips in the puddle. Full-blown pratfall.

By take seven, the crew has given up. Keisha and Jordan are heckling us from behind the monitors.

“Just kiss already!” “With tongues this time!” “Bet you five quid they break character again.”

Will wipes water from my eyes. “You alright, baby?”

“Freezing,” I whisper.

“Good thing I’m here then.”

He kisses me finally, properly and the second the director yells “cut,” I feel his forehead rest gently against mine.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs.

“You’re wet.”

“That’s what she sa...”

I slap his chest. He cackles.

Table Read for Episode 6

Everyone’s gathered around the table. Scripts in hand. Coffee cups everywhere.

The writer starts reading the scene description aloud:

“INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT. They lie in bed together. She whispers, ‘I think I’m falling in love with you.’ He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls her close and kisses her like it’s the last time.”

Silence.

Then Will leans over, drops his voice to a whisper and says, “That’s so realistic.”

I blink. “Excuse you?”

He points to the line. “You’d definitely say it first.”

“Oh, shut up, Poulter.”

“You would! You’re the soft one.”

I gasp. “Take it back.”

“You said you cried over an advert last week.”

“It was a puppy adoption commercial, Will!”

Everyone is howling. Jordan bangs the table, Keisha’s recording us on her phone, and I’m mock-throttling Will while he clutches his chest dramatically.

“See?” he wheezes. “You love me.”

I can’t even argue. Not convincingly.

We’re backstage at a fan convention to promote we are filming season 2, still dressed in costume. We’ve just come off a panel where someone asked if we were dating and Will responded, “Only emotionally.”

I’m fixing my hair in the mirror. Will appears behind me, rests his chin on my shoulder like a sleepy cat.

“You look nice, baby,” he says, warm and low.

I glance at him in the mirror. “You’re literally seeing me in a corset and fake blood.”

“Still applies.”

He starts fiddling with a strand of my hair, twisting it absentmindedly. Then so softly I barely hear it he says, “Don’t want this to end, you know.”

“The show?”

“This. Us. Whatever this is.”

I meet his eyes in the mirror.

“It doesn’t have to,” I say quietly.

His smile is soft. “No. It doesn’t.”

He brushes his lips against my temple.

And somehow, it says everything.

Scene 16: The Infamous “Slow Dance” Episode

The script says we’re supposed to slow dance in the living room after a heavy argument scene. Romantic. Quiet. A release of tension.

What happens instead?

Will leads me in a full-on waltz. Dramatic dips, terrible spins, humming a terrible version of Can’t Help Falling in Love under his breath.

“You’re meant to be in tears,” I laugh, tripping over my own foot.

“I am, baby,” he says, pretending to sob. “Tears of passion.”

Director yells cut.

Will pulls me close, both of us breathless.

“You’re my favourite person,” he says simply.

“Even though I stepped on your foot?”

He shrugs. “Part of the charm.”

It’s midway through filming Episode 9.

Will and I are curled up between takes on the set couch. He’s practically wrapped around me like an octopus: one hand on my thigh, chin on my shoulder, his other hand playing with my fingers.

“Can you two not be in love for one second?” Jordan groans.

“We’re method acting,” Will replies, straight-faced.

“You’re not even in the next scenes”

“…Background method acting.”

“Disgusting,” Keisha mutters, tossing a cushion at us.

I laugh, nestling further into Will. He presses a kiss to my shoulder and sighs.

The sun’s setting on our last scene of the day. We're on the rooftop set, a beautiful golden glow making everything feel hazy and unreal.

Will turns to me between takes, a rare moment of quiet passing between us.

“You know,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face, “this whole ‘baby’ thing… it wasn’t just for fun.”

My heart trips. “No?”

“Nah. Been calling you that since Season One because calling you anything else felt wrong.”

I smile. “Good. Because I've also changed your name in my phone and everything.”

“To what?”

“Will ‘Baby’ Poulter.”

He snorts. “Perfect.”

And as the cameras roll again me in his arms, city lights behind us, a scripted ‘I love you’ about to fall from my lips it suddenly doesn’t feel like acting.

It feels like something that’s always been there, waiting to be said.

So I say it.

And he says it back.

And the crew claps when the scene ends, but all I can hear is the sound of his laugh, his voice in my ear, whispering:

“Let’s never stop being this.”

You’d think, after everything the press tours, the touchy co-star banter, the endless “baby”s that going public would be no big deal.

Except it is.

Will and I have been officially, properly, undeniably together for three months. And we haven’t told a soul.

Well… okay. We told Keisha, but that’s because she walked in on us kissing in my trailer and screamed so loud someone from set security ran in.

But otherwise it’s our little secret.

And I love it. The quietness. The in-between moments. The way he squeezes my hand under the table during cast meetings. The way he leans in when we’re on panel, his arm brushing mine like it’s nothing, but it’s everything.

We’re just… us. Quietly, secretly, disgustingly in love.

And the fans? They’re foaming at the mouth.

It starts with the rings.

Matching silver bands. they both have a tiny inscription on the inside a lyric from the first song he ever sent me. We never take them off.

Will posts a photo of his ring while holding his morning coffee. Caption: “Powered by oat milk and chaos.”

Two hours later, I post a selfie with my hand in the frame. Different angle. Same ring.

The comments go wild.

“SAME RING?!!???” “you can’t hide from us, baby girl 💍” “powered by oat milk and Y/N clearly.” “Lads. We’ve cracked the code.”

I show Will the screenshots while we’re in bed. He just grins and kisses my shoulder.

“Let them theorise, love. It’s more fun this way.”

The next giveaway? A baking video.

I’m whisking something in my kitchen. Flour on my nose. You know, peak domestic goddess energy.

A few days later Will uploads a video of him burning toast.

Both videos have identical tiles in the background.

I don’t even notice.

But the fans?

“THE BACKSPLASH IS THE SAME I REPEAT...” “who else has paused at the 0:16 mark to zoom in on the tile pattern” “i would recognise that grout work anywhere”

I FaceTime Will.

“Apparently your grout work is iconic.”

He smirks. “Only the best for my girl.”

The next one? Completely unplanned.

Will’s doing an Instagram Live. Casual. Innocent.

I’m curled up on the sofa behind the camera, out of frame, sipping tea and trying to be silent.

Except I sneeze.

Loud.

Will doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t turn. Just goes, “Bless you, baby,” and keeps talking.

The chat erupts.

“WHO DID HE JUST CALL BABY???” “WAIT WHO SNEEZED???” “DID Y/N JUST..." “I HEARD THE SNEEZE I HEARD THE BLESSING I AM CONNECTING DOTS”

And to make things worse, someone somehow zooms in on the reflection in the glass cabinet behind him. Blurry, but definitely a woman. In a jumper I’d worn three days earlier.

I’m officially doomed.

We try to be careful in public. Different exits, different cars, hats pulled low.

But one night, leaving a wrap party we forget.

Will’s got his arm slung lazily around my shoulder. I’m laughing at something he said. We’re just… happy. And we’re not thinking.

Flash. Flash. Clickclickclick.

The next morning: front page of a gossip site. “Will Poulter and Y/N Caught in Late-Night Embrace”

Keisha sends us the link with seventeen eye emojis and a voice note that’s just her screaming.

Will’s response?

“I think we looked good.”

I hurl a cushion at his head.

It’s the day of a big panel interview for the show. There’s six of us on the couch, lights blaring, coffee in hand. I’m in a silky green blouse. Will’s next to me in black trousers and rings on every finger including the ring.

We’re halfway through a “get to know the cast” game when the host asks:

“What’s the most romantic thing someone’s ever done for you?”

Everyone laughs. Groans. Coughs up non-answers.

Will, the menace, leans forward.

“Well… once someone wrote me a three-page birthday card where they rhymed everything and made me cry like an idiot. That was pretty romantic.”

The host smiles. “Aw, was it a girlfriend?”

Will doesn’t even hesitate and glances my way. “Yeah, my girl. Love of my life.”

Silence.

Keisha’s mouth drops open. Jordan full-on chokes on his water.

I freeze.

Will just blinks. Then blinks again. Realises.

“...I mean..." he pauses mid sentence realising what he said

Too late.

The internet already has the clip. Subtitled. Looping. Analysed frame by frame.

“Will just said MY GIRL” “love of his LIFE????” “blink if you’re dating Y/N” “we knew it. we KNEWWWWWWWW.”

That night, we’re lying on my sofa. My head’s on his chest, and he’s scrolling through TikTok on my phone.

He finds one that’s just a slideshow of us with the caption: “if they’re not in love then I’m a hatstand.”

He grins. “You seeing this?”

I groan into his t-shirt. “I’m never showing my face again.”

“You say that,” he says, turning the phone to me, “but you do look good here.”

I peek. It’s a photo of us behind the scenes he’s looking at me like I hung the moon.

“I look sweaty.”

“You look happy.”

I press a kiss to his jaw. “I am happy.”

“Then let them know, baby.”

We don’t do a big post. No Notes app. No hard launch.

But a week later, I upload a photo dump. Random shots. Sunset. Book I’m reading. A blurry picture of a man’s hand in mine ring clearly visible.

The caption?

“Soft things. Quiet days.”

An hour later, Will posts a video of me laughing in bed, hair messy, cheeks pink. He’s clearly filming from beside me.

His caption?

“Still the love of my life. Even when she steals all the covers.”

The comments explode.

Keisha texts us: “Finally.”

Jordan sends six gifs of people fainting.

And me? I close the app, curl into Will’s side, and smile against his chest.

Because we were never really hiding.

We just liked the secret almost as much as we like each other.

I’ve worn uncomfortable dresses before premiere nights, award ceremonies, press galas. But this one is different.

Because tonight, I’m not just Y/N, actress and chronic scene partner giggler.

I’m Y/N… arriving hand-in-hand with Will Poulter.

And every step I take down this ridiculously long red carpet feels like the internet is collectively inhaling.

He’s in a black suit, no tie, a few of his favourite rings on. He smells like the cologne I nicked for myself and now pretend is mine. His hand is warm in mine, thumb brushing slow, soothing circles on my knuckles.

“You alright, baby?” he leans down to murmur.

I look up at him so tall, annoyingly tall and grin. “We’re about to break the internet.”

He smirks. “Good.”

“So, Will,” the interviewer says, grinning like she’s in on a secret. “Big moment tonight. Big step.”

Will glances at me. Squeezes my hand where it rests on his knee.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Long time coming.”

“Was there a conversation about doing this? Like, going public?”

He nods. “We always said if we did, it’d be on our own terms. No statement. Just… existing.”

“And looking incredible while doing it,” I add cheekily.

He laughs a real, loud laugh that makes the camera guy snort.

The clip’s online before we even get to the theatre. The headlines range from “WillterY/N Official!” to “True Love on the Carpet” to “Find You Someone Who Looks at You Like Will Poulter Looks at Y/N.”

6 months later, we’re back on set. Season three in full swing, and today’s scene?

The scene.

Steamy, slow, skin-on-skin. The writers went feral this season and apparently decided our characters needed a sex scene that spans three and a half pages of script and takes place in a dimly lit library during a thunderstorm.

You know. Totally casual.

We’re both in costume him in a half-buttoned shirt, me in a slip dress that just clings in all the right places. Everyone’s trying to act professional.

We are failing.

“Alright,” the director says. “We’ll go from the moment he pins her against the bookshelf. No laughing. This is emotional. Vulnerable. Intimate.”

We nod.

Will whispers, “Vulnerable my arse,” and I bite my cheek not to snort.

“Quiet on set! Rolling!”

He backs me into the set bookshelf, arms braced either side of my head. Our faces are inches apart.

I can feel the tension. It should be hot.

But the second his nose bumps mine and he breathes, “Baby…” in that low, gravelly voice?

I lose it.

“CUT!”

I double over laughing. Will starts wheezing too.

The director pinches the bridge of his nose. “Guys. We have one day to get this locked.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” I manage between hiccups. “He did the thing! The voice thing!”

Will shrugs, grinning. “You love the voice thing.”

“You’re not wrong.”

We try again.

This time, he kisses down my neck slow, dragging kisses just like the script says.

Except his stubble tickles, and my shoulders jerk up involuntarily.

He stops, mid-kiss. “Did I...”

“You tickled me!” I yelp, breaking character again.

He laughs, a full-bodied, belly-deep laugh, and presses his forehead to mine.

“I can’t work under these conditions,” he says dramatically. “You’re too ticklish. It’s not safe.”

“CUT. AGAIN.”

By Take Seven, the crew’s given up pretending they’re not watching like it’s a romcom blooper reel.

The director claps once. Loud.

“Okay, I love you both, but we are running out of time. If we don’t get this in the next hour, we’re here all bloody night. Please take it seriously.”

Will looks at me.

I look at him.

His eyes flicker playful, but soft underneath.

Then, before I can say anything, he grabs my waist, pushes me back against the shelf, and kisses the absolute daylights out of me

The room disappears.

His mouth is on mine hot, urgent, real and his hands are firm on my hips, like he’s reminding me this is more than lines on a page.

He kisses me like he’s waited all season for this.

Like the camera doesn’t exist.

Like I’m his, in every single way.

My arms wrap around his neck instinctively. I feel him smile against my lips just a flash before deepening it.

And the scene?

Flows.

We fall into the choreography naturally hands tangled in hair, slow removal of buttons, heated murmurs against skin.

There’s nothing fake about it.

When the director finally calls “Cut,” no one speaks.

I’m breathless. Flushed.

Will’s forehead rests against mine. His hand finds mine behind my back, fingers laced.

There’s a full beat of silence.

Then: Keisha somewhere behind the monitors goes, “Well, damn.”

We’re sitting on the dressing room floor half an hour later, sharing a tub of ice cream someone left in the crew freezer.

Will’s cheeks are still pink.

I nudge his shoulder. “You ambushed me.”

He smirks. “You loved it.”

“You used tongue.”

He shrugs, grinning. “Method acting.”

“You menace.”

He leans over and kisses my cheek. “You’re welcome.”

When the episode aired months later the internet collectively melts down.

“THAT SCENE??? THEY’RE SO HAWT TOGETHER.” “you can’t fake that hand placement” “the way he touches her like he’s memorising every inch?? I AM UNWELL.” “i know acting when i see it. this was not acting. this was possession.”

I scroll through the tweets while Will’s curled around me in bed, smug as ever.

The season finale airs. The cast has a mini watch party. We’re in a rented studio space with a screen and far too much wine.

The second that scene plays, the room howls.

“Y’all knew the camera was rolling, right?” Jordan yells.

Keisha points. “Her leg! It wrapped around his waist! That wasn’t in the script!”

Will just smirks, arm slung around my shoulder. “We improvised.”

Keisha groans. “You two make me sick.”

We clink glasses.

Under the table, his pinky hooks around mine.

[killerblueeyesxprettybluedude]

“i give up,” stiles says. “no more research for me. i’m going to be joey chestnut.”

the joey chestnut of peanut butter cups. is someone doing it? see, an opening.

“joey…” scott says, and stiles says, “the hot dog eater guy. he doesn’t need bigger aspirations. he just sees hot dogs, and unhinges his jaw.”

it’s inspirational, really. how he isn’t, like, sick on the spot.

“i can do, like, thirty,” stiles says. “i bet. before it glues my mouth shut.”

“gross,” scott says. “what were you researching?”

“some derek thing, you know how he is,” stiles says. “he’s always on me.”

and he’s a little tired of banging his head against the wall. straining his brain, like, tears streaming down his face, reading without blinking. and coming up with nothing.

“it’s gonna look like i did nothing, anyway,” stiles says. “even if i kept going.”

his head’s kind of starting to throb.

“when’s the last time you’ve been outside?”

“not important,” stiles says, because the answer is probably a little scary. if he really tries to nail it down.

“or at work…”

“work from home, baby,” stiles says. “what i was born for.”

he’s pretty sure he always had pandemic instincts. down to the obsessive handwashing. the not-quite anxiety, just threatening to spiral out of control.

he’s mostly fine with it.

mostly, he’s bored. everything is boring now.

even monsters are boring.

“it would be so funny if something tried to kill me again,” stiles says. “for old time’s sake. kick up the adrenaline, you know?”

scott looks at him worriedly, and stiles laughs. watches scott relax again.

doesn’t say, you don’t know how hard i’d run at it.

post-ish pandemic not-quite sterek. stiles is just deeply deeply unfulfilled and bored. derek is somehow not almost dying or watching people die every day, so he’s not pushing his luck with things. boring is nice. it’s relaxing. he’s been reading. he bought a nice chair.

stiles has declared him four thousand years old.

it’s almost funny, whatever it is between them, when he’s like this. quiet, and calm, and fine with it, and making stiles feel insane for wanting…

but derek’s not even that person anymore. violent and desperate and grabby, nope. that guy died the last time derek didn’t.

and now everything’s fine. and derek’s fine. he shows him articles sometimes. clipped out articles, the world’s least grizzled grandfather. opening a newspaper, reading it out for conversation.

oh, the spark is so gone.

which is… it’s not like derek’s looking for it. or even ever really made a move.

he just stopped running, and found a book, and sat down. turned into a buddhist monk, or something. one with everything.

and that’s cool! stiles isn’t even… he’s fine, he’s got options. he’s thinking about his options, in theory.

yeah, he doesn’t understand it either. college, time for exploring, but he never… and then things were just, like, politically heavy. and then, the world’s on fire! and sirens and look at that, back to dying.

and now that’s mostly over. well, sort of. and he’s twenty-seven, how the fuck did that happen. and derek’s thirty.

it’s a real trip finding that out. that derek hale was nineteen, when they first met him. nineteen! he was tiny. an absolute baby, a toddler.

“very funny,” derek says, but it isn’t. “how old did you think i was?”

“like ten years older than us!” stiles says. “five, easy! like, mid-twenties.”

“hanging around a high school,” derek says, and stiles says, “like you couldn’t pass for creepy. mr private property.”

“i know,” derek says. “i wasn’t—in the best frame of mind.”

“yeah, big surprise,” stiles says. “and we were incredibly annoying. i totally disown the guy i used to be.”

“the guy you used to be,” derek says. “how long ago? exactly.”

“five minutes?” stiles says. “that should cover it.”

and stiles could swear derek almost laughs, at that. for a second.

maybe.

[animeyanderelover]

Absolutely adore your work and writing and hope you have a wonderful day! 💗

Okay, dramatic reader saying whilst holding her hands out "oh, if only the answer to all of my problems would into my arms!" To itachi from Naruto.

More hilarious if the reader was stupidly short.

I assume you meant to write something along the lines of "Oh, if only the answer to all of my problems would come into my arms!" and forgot one word.

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, reader is technically abducted, isolation, Stockholmy Syndrome (kind of)

Tags: @shumidehiro @swagenemyartisan @o-ree-ve

First Sentence Prompt

A smile. You actually got a smile out of him! Well, you definitely deserved one from him after he had been gone for weeks for yet another mission. But now he was back, standing there in the doorframe with a small but genuine smile on his face whilst watching you standing there in the middle of the room with your arms wide open.

"Missed me that much?" he questioned, half-amused and half-genuine as he stepped inside finally as if he had been wondering for a moment if he was worthy of doing so. The moment he did, you approached him immediately. You had been alone in this cottage for weeks if you didn't count the few birds and animals you sometimes fed like a sheltered princess out of a fairytale. There was no one else around. You knew why. Itachi had explained it very early on. That never meant that you had learned to live with the loneliness though.

"Stupid question. Of course I missed you. It's boring without you... and kind of lonely too."

You didn't wait for him to hug you. No, you initiated it on your own as your arms wrapped around him and you pressed yourself against him. The scent of forest and smoke clung to him but you didn't question it. You didn't want to know nor did you care either. He was back. That was all that you cared about really right now.

Where your body relaxed with the hug though, Itachi slightly tensed. Dark eyes landed on your form clinging to him tightly, the previous trace of a smile dissipating. In its place a quiet but haunted gleam of guilt shone in his gaze before he initiated the hug carefully. It wasn't as tight as yours was but it was deeply reassuring.

"I'm sorry," was the quiet apology he whispered in your ear, his voice just as guilty as the look in his eyes.

"It's alright. I understand that it can't be avoided. Sometimes I just think that it would be nice if I could spend more time with you."

You really tried to not get too emotional. You knew that there was little you could blame him for in this situation as he was bound to the Akatsuki and had his duties to fulfill. Still, your voice cracked slightly at the beginning and once more at the end.

Nope, this would not do. The second you pulled hurriedly out of his hug, you were trying your best to compose yourself again. He had just gotten home and the last thing you wanted was to make him feel guilty. So you plastered a grin on your face, all to not let any dwelling sadness break out.

"I wasn't completely alone, you know? Some birds came every day for some crumbs of bread. They love me. Or they at least love the bread but I give it to them so that's the same thing."

A slightly forced laugh left your lips but the moment you met his gaze, the sounds died down in your throat. Because he had that look in his eyes again. That haunted and old look that he sometimes gave you when the guilty conscience he had never shaken off got louder and when the sins of his past caught up with him. You hated that look. Because it brought you back to a time before all of this too.

"It's not alright, (y/n)."

There was a heavy lump in the back of your throat, made out of repressed bitterness and emotions you didn't want to go through again. Not when you had just thought you had finally accepted it all.

"Speak for yourself. I am perfectly alright."

You sounded far too defensive and that took even you by surprise when you heard your voice countering that one sentence of him.

"I'm sorry, that came over way too harsh. I, well-you know-ugh"

Your mouth moved before your thoughts did. God, it was far too much a habit of yours to start talking before you even knew what you wanted to say. Itachi's words were always measured and thought through. You couldn't say the same from you and that made certain conversations very frustrating.

"Let's just not talk about it, okay? You have just gotten here and I don't want you to start brooding immediately again. Not today. You have my permission to do it tomorrow but please just try to enjoy yourself in my company for once."

He still gave you that look that told you that he was already very deep in his thoughts. For Itachi it was never easy to get out of them once he was stuck inside. Even when he blinked once as if trying to shake them off, you knew they would cling to the back of his mind all because you had slipped up.

"Understood."

[thelittlestspider]

what i wrote for the matt/peter marriage of convenience fic

Matt and Peter sit on a rooftop looking over the city. Peter sighs.

Matt: What’s with you?

Peter: Nothing. I just— [he sighs again.] Just lonely, I guess. [he looks over at Matt with a smile under the mask.] I miss being married.

The corner of Matt’s lips quirk. 

Matt: Me too.

They sit there for a moment in the quiet together. Peter leans back on his hands, feet dangling over the edge of the roof. He looks at the lights and the people walking on the streets below them, so far away they look like ants. It makes him feel even more alone. A wistful smile twists at his mouth. What a pair they make: a couple of lonely, divorced guys hanging out on a rooftop at 3am. Sad. 

“Maybe we should get married,” jokes Peter, looking at Matt. 

Matt doesn’t even crack a smile at his joke. Not that Peter is expecting him to, because it isn’t really that funny. Matt just looks thoughtful. Peter wishes he could see inside Matt’s head; the things he thinks about and obsesses over, what he likes and doesn’t like, how he perceives the world. The guy holds everything so close, even just the little things, that makes Peter want to peel back the layers to the guy underneath. Peter pictures himself opening Matt’s shell like a nesting doll and Matt getting smaller and smaller until there’s just the Matt inside, a hissing, spitting thing with fangs.

Matt: Maybe…we could get married? If you wanted to.

Peter stares at him, mouth open in shock.

Peter: What?

Matt: I said I’d like to be married to you. If that’s something you want.

Peter tries to get ahold of himself enough to respond. What comes out is a nervous laughter tinged with hysteria.

Peter: (laughing) I was just kidding, D.

Matt looks a little hurt, and Peter feels guilty. There’s an awkward silence that becomes heavy and uncomfortable. Peter shifts in place, wanting to be anywhere but there.

Peter: Hey uh, I’ll call you, alright?

Then he swings away.

…

Hours later Peter lies in bed, sweating and unable to sleep because the AC is broken. His mattress is old and dips in the middle. Peter stares up at the ceiling thinking about what Matt said. I’d like to be married to you. Dear god, why? Hell, why had Peter even made the joke in the first place? What straight man jokes about marrying his guy friend? He comes to the conclusion that he is an idiot, and that he’s probably wrecked things with Matt. 

Peter keeps thinking about it though. Why not marry Matt? He blows out a breath, then gets up to grab a notebook off his desk, and starts listing pros and cons.

Cons

Matt is obsessive

Matt is controlling

Matt is reckless and self-destructive

Matt is a liar and a hypocrite

Peter strokes the cap of the pen over his bottom lip. He feels like he can’t really throw stones at Matt for these things, because Peter is also a liar, a hypocrite, and destructive. So these aren’t really dealbreakers for him. He decides to list the positives of having Matt as a husband.

Pros

Matt cares about everything. Deeply. Probably more than most people care about stuff.

Matt loves children and animals

He has money, a nice house, and insurance.

He’s a fellow vigilante

He’s a friend

I feel comfortable with him

I can tell him just about anything

He laughs at my jokes

He makes me laugh

Peter sets down his pen. He runs his hands down his face, glaring at the wall. 

“Fuck it,” he mutters to himself, reaching for his phone. 

[sunsetmade]

500 Follower Celebration Special!!

Celebration explanation:

Welcome to my 500 follower celebration special!

To celebrate hitting 500 amazing followers, I'm opening up prompt requests while I stay at this milestone! You can choose from the prompt list below and request something for Rafe Cameron, Bucky Barnes, or even suggest other characters you'd like to see — I'm open to ideas but please ask before sending in a request so you can know if I’m willing to write for that character!

The prompts are dialogue-based and fall into the following categories: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, and a hint of smut (I'm not super heavy on this, but it's there!)

I can't wait to create with you and thank you again for being here! I will also be continuing with regular requests as well!

Scroll down for my thank your letter!

Directions:

When sending in a request, please start with the prompt number, followed by the character you’d like (such as Rafe Cameron, Bucky Barnes, or another suggestion), and then include the writing type — whether it’s fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, or something else. Finally, if you’re interested in it being an AU, put down what you would like it to be. Feel free to add any extra details you'd like to see in the story!

Example >

I would like to request #3, Rafe Cameron, Fluff, (if wanted an AU), (any extra details)

Prompts:

When a prompt is crossed out that means it has already been written!

“You’re not going home tonight. Stay.”

“Stop looking at me like that, or I’m never gonna stop kissing you.”

“You’re sexy when you’re mad.”

“You’re the only person who’s never looked at me like I’m a lost cause.”

“Tell me you hate me one more time— look me in the eyes when you do.”

“I don’t care how cold your feet are. Come here.”

“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

“You saw what I did. Why are you still here?”

“You don’t scare me.”

“Who the hell said that to you?”

“Don’t look at them. Look at me.”

“Say the word and I’ll handle it.”

“You always do that little smile when you’re trying not to blush.”

“This is nice. Just you and me, and nothing else to worry about.”

“I’ve done a lot of bad things, but you? You’re the one thing I have that’s good.”

“You’re stuck with me forever, you know that?”

“Come nap with me. Please?”

“Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

“You’re insufferable.” — “You’re obsessed with me.”

“Just beacuse I don’t like you doesn’t mean I don’t notice everything about you.”

“I know you better than anyone. Don’t lie to me.”

“You’re the only person I would do this for.”

“You’re mine even if you don’t see it yet.”

“We always end up here. You and me.”

“I don’t care what you did. I’m not leaving.”

Sunny’s thank you letter:

I just wanted to take a moment to say a big, heartfelt thank you for 500 followers! I’m honestly so grateful for every single one of you who’s taken the time to read, comment, or just quietly enjoy my fics. Knowing that my stories have found a little home in your day means more than I can put into words. I’m excited to keep writing and sharing more with you—and I hope you’ll stick around for whatever comes next. Thanks again for being part of this little corner of the internet. 💛

[egophiliac]

I'm trying to avoid getting spoiled so I haven't looked up what's happening in the Jp server's main story, but for my own sanity I need to ask; is the story at a point where we know whether Lilia will get better/survive his almost-empty magic reserves..? Was it a true death flag from the start or only a plot device for malleus' overblot....?

not yet! I do think they're going to get back to it eventually, but -- keeping it as low spoilers as possible -- there's been...let's just say a LOT going on in the meantime.

enjoy 7-6!!! :)

[lyxchen]

hi i interact with u a lot but i dont think ive ever actually talked to you,,

your art is so stunning agh i love it so much its genuinely just like breathtaking 💗💗

I know you sent this ask a few days ago, sorry but anyways hii!!! Thank you so much!! Also I love interacting with you and like in general I really adore the sangihun and Squid Game fans on here <3 And because I know you're out of sangihun prison now here have a little drawing that's not quite finished yet as a treat:

Anyways I hope you have a great day/night (it's once again close to 2am for me help)

[snzydarling]

and ofc gotta throw some of your middle aged lovelies at you how about f/ukuzawa with a stuck snz~ how would he handle that? where is it happening? guess that's up to you 👀

ok once again thank u so much for all of these asks im gnawing at my enclosure... i had to start with my middle aged guy because hes just my guy..... i tried to keep very little fuku/fuku in this so that way its palatable to litr anybody besides me but i dont think i did a good job ok thank u for the ask again........ i hope u enjoy (^-^)

“Ah, Yuki, you okay?” 

This isn't exactly unusual. Allergies hit Fukuzawa like clockwork in February, leaving him disheveled and sensitive. Genichirou's borne witness to almost 30 years' worth of hayfever seasons - but even he's a little surprised when he barges into the office. 

Yukichi looks hazy - sort of like he is when drunk, but he'd never drink at work. His eyes are unfocused and watery, and his shoulders are trembling. For a heart-dropping second, Genichirou thinks he's crying. 

But after a beat, he sighs. Starts scrubbing at his face with a fury, and bleary, redrimmed eyes meet his clear ones. He looks grumpy - actually grumpy, not just the infamous resting-angry face look he carries. The crease in his brow gives him away. 

“Genichirou.” He acknowledges, finally, voice husky and breathy in a weird way. He blinks a few times, probably to clear itchy-looking tears away, and one hand moves back to his already abused nose. Genichirou can't help but whistle. 

“Did you take your meds? You look pretty awful.” Fukuzawa huffs at him. Genichirou considers himself pretty lucky he didn't get a pen thrown at him. Better not test it. 

He plops down onto the couch. It's late enough that Yukichi’s got the lights on, dull enough to not aggravate a sinus headache. They're pretty useless, given that his laptop is closed. He's just staring at the wall, scrubbing and scrubbing at his nose with his face scrunched. It's Genichirou's turn to throw something his way. 

A spare paperclip from the stand next to him. It platters to the floor, batted away, but Fukuzawa doesn't even acknowledge it beyond that. He just keeps fussing at his face. Maybe he didn't take anything, even though Genichirou knows he keeps an extra stash of meds hidden away everywhere. He mentioned needing a Benydral once, and Yuki pulled a blister pack from his sleeve in the dead of winter

“Yuki, what's your problem?” he asks,  eyes searching for another paperclip, or maybe something heavier so he'll have to at least look at it. Yuki snuffles, then sighs, then stands up, shaking his head a few times like an old, burly dog. His ears are red. They peek out from his hair like cherries. 

“I can't,” He trails off, gesturing kind of vaguely at his face. Fukuchi prods, in the literal sense, jumping from his seat to bump their shoulders together and poke at the tensed muscles on his back. “Keep goin’.” 

Fukuzawa shuffles his way to the couches. “I can't sneeze.” He admits after way too long. Thank god, because all the awkward suspense was making Genichirou feel weird. They told each other everything - some unsaid thing that made Yukichi look like he was crying and his ears burning would've eaten him alive. He tries hard not to laugh for a second, sputtering out half giggles, but the offended look Yuki gives him from under his bangs, half mad and half embarrassed, sends him over the edge. 

He's fully expecting the kick to the leg, but it still hurts like hell.  He'll tell anybody - Yukichi's stronger than he looks, and he's got years of bruises to prove it. Those wooden sandals are damn pointy, too. 

When he finally settles down enough to sit back down, Fukuzawa's too busy to keep abusing him. He's got that bleary look again. Fukuchi wouldn't know anything about trying to sneeze. It doesn't take him any effort at all. But he does know a lot about Fukuzawa's allergies, and how he turns every sneeze into a little implosion, and how sometimes that turns into this. And Fukuchi knows all about which buttons to press, too - what to mention to rile him up enough to spar, and the one spot on his face that's sensitive. 

His entire face is twitching when Genichirou leans in close. He's waiting in desperate anticipation for something to send him over the edge, chest stuttering with uneven, desperate breaths, eyes weighed down by heavy and irritated tears. Call Fukuchi a savior. He nudges Fukuzawa’s hand away from where it's resting under his nose and presses his ring finger right where soft cartilage meets bone, just above the tip of his nose. 

There isn't very much gratitude at first. In fact, his hand is shoved away. But Yukichi takes in a ragged breath of air and is thrown forward so fast that his face disappears in a blur of motion. 

“ ‘rRSZCHH -  eH'RSCHh!” He appears for a moment, hands lingering in the air, before he crumbles back down. 

“iA'ESZHHUh-! hH’rRSZHHh-oo! ehH'RZSHHi-!” They're so big that Fukuchi has to grab his shoulder to keep him on the couch. He shudders into each sneeze, probably tearing his throat. They're nothing like what Fukuchi's used to hearing. 

“ eI'SZCHHi-iew-! ‘rSZHHhiew-!” Fukuchi fumbles for tissues once he sounds like he's cleared out enough to breathe. “God, Yuki. Bless you.” He pressed tissues into his hand because if the way he's sniffling now is anything to go by, his face is a mess. 

When he lifts his face back a few moments later, nothing besides the angry red splotches gives anything away on his face. Looking down, however, his lap is splattered with spots of mess. Yuki sniffles again, then again, and a third time, then throws a half-hearted hand up and finally blows his nose. 

It takes a few throat-clearings for his voice to be anything audible after that. Yukichi slumped against the couch after blowing his nose, like sneezing like that tired him out. 

“Thank you.” Now his voice is thick with dredged-up congestion, and even Fukuzawa seems to acknowledge that he just can't win. Genichirou'd make him some tea, but he isn't any good at it. He just gives a sympathetic thump on the shoulder instead. “You feelin’ better now?” 

Fukuzawa nods. Genichirou pats his shoulder a few more times, just for good measure. “You owe me a drink now, Yuki!” 

Yukichi must be alright now, because that kick to the shins was in record time. Genichirou probably won't ever recover from all this abuse. There's something about deceiving looks and lifetime friends.